


Wicked Game

by CallMeElle



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: CSI Barry Allen, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, I'm Bad At Tagging, Journalist Iris West, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Snarky Barry and Iris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 108,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22169923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: Her move to look out of the window has put her closer to Barry, whose long frame is stretched out in front of him. When she turns to face him, she watches as his eyes run along her frame, from her tall black pumps, up her bare legs. Her fitted black skirt feels tighter under his gaze, her red silk blouse nearly transparent. When he locks on her face, she feels feverish, and confused, and a little bit like she’s drowning.Or, the Fake Dating AU I've somehow convinced myself to write.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Iris West
Comments: 270
Kudos: 526





	1. I.

I.

_“The world was on fire and no one could save me but you; it’s strange what desire makes foolish people do.”_

When Iris walks into Jitters on a hot May morning, she’s already late for work and the line is nearly to the door. She frowns, casting an impatient glance at her watch, and then steps forward in line, her tall black pumps clicking softly on the linoleum floors. She doesn’t know why, but she feels antsy, on edge, like someone is watching her, waiting for her. She cards a hand through her hair and takes a look around.

Jitters is filled with its usual grade of people: college students who’ve just rolled out of bed; twenty-and thirty-something year olds inhaling coffee before they venture off to jobs they hate; police officers hoping to get a decent cup of coffee instead of the slop Iris is sure being made over at the precinct.

The coffee shop is centrally located, blocks away from Central City University’s downtown campus, the CC Police Department, and her own journalistic start-up, the _Central City Citizen_. She recognizes several of the customers, students, and cops, and lawyers she’s interviewed at one point or another in her journalistic career. It doesn’t make much sense, then, why she’s buzzing.

Her phone vibrates, breaking her perusal, and she fishes in her bag for it as she moves up in line. The name and picture of her friend and employee, Linda Park, blinks on the screen. She pulls a face before placing the phone up to her ear.

“I know I’m late, Linda,” Iris says in lieu of a greeting.

“Hello,” Linda responds. “How are you this morning? I’m doing swell.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “Hi, Linda. I know I’m late.”

“Is that what you want me to tell Detective Barnes who’s on his way to talk to you about the Will Jenkins case?”

“I won’t be late,” she assures her, casting an unsure look at the front of the line.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end.

“Linda?”

“If he shows up before you do,” she says, “I’ll stall. We both know how much you need coffee in the morning.”

“You, too, are a joy in the mornings,” Iris drawls and hangs up, just as she hears Linda yelling,

“Love you, t-”

Iris slips her phone back into her shoulder bag, cursing her broken alarm clock. She’d woken up late and she’d had to rush: quickly washing her body in the shower before the water had truly had a chance to warm up, losing four precious minutes looking for the left shoe of the pair she’s wearing, and pretty much running to Jitters in the hope that some god would be looking out for her and she could get a much needed cup. Obviously, they hadn’t been paying attention.

She is contemplating just leaving and chugging a Red Bull from her emergency stash, when something catches her attention, making her tense up _._

“Hey, West.”

Iris scowls at the sound of the voice, playful and cautious and _lilting,_ all at once. She tries to alter her facial expression before shifting on her heels and looking back up. The man is standing only steps away from her, and she lets herself trail the long length of him: from the big camel-colored desert boots, to the well-fitting blue slacks, to the soft-looking red plaid shirt that stretches over broad shoulders Iris does _not_ notice. The top couple buttons of his shirt are undone and she sees a few faint moles on his neck that lead up to his sculpted jaw and an astonishing pair of eyes that meet hers. Iris finds herself wondering, not for the first time, whether they are green or blue or some inexplicable combination of the two.

“Allen,” she mumbles and then rolls her eyes at the way her tone makes the corners of his mouth lift in mirth. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mr. Head CSI?”

She moves up in the line. She is definitely going to need that coffee now.

“I have to be wherever you are,” he responds.

Iris freezes, eyes widening. He matches her reaction, coughing awkwardly into his arm.

“That came out weirder than I heard it in my head.”

Iris nods slowly in agreement.

“Here.” He thrusts a coffee at her, just as she realizes that he’s been holding two coffees the entire time.

She eyes it dubiously. “Is it poisoned?”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “It’s a peace offering, West.” He shakes the coffee at her. “C’mon. You know you can’t say you don’t want it. You still have a 15 minute wait, _at least,_ in front of you.” The last part he punctuates with a glance toward the line.

His arm is still stretches out, the smell of coffee filtering from the paper cup. She takes a moment to study his smirk, the amusement in his eyes, and she’s taken back to high school. Back to when awkward, fumbling Barry Allen grew into his long limbs and his open smile, and then suddenly, he and Iris couldn’t be in the same room without sniping at each other.

They’d been friends before, when they were both knock-kneed and snaggle-toothed, despite his being older. But then they’d grown. Iris had found a love of literature and news; Barry had found his passion in science. In addition, he had found a group of people who’d looked down on Iris and her friends, at their perceived sole interest of _fun,_ and she and Barry had only managed to drift further.

“Why would I need a peace offering?” she wonders.

He bites at his lip. “Detective Barnes got called away on a lead. He asked me to step in and talk to you about the Jenkins case.”

“Ahh,” Iris nods. “How’d they get you to slum it at my little ole newspaper?”

“Oh you know me,” he drones, “anything I can do to give back.”

Iris glowers. “You are such a jack-”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he laughs, taking a small step back and holding up the coffees as if in surrender. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll play nice.”

He stands there, grinning at her, blue-green eyes shining, mouth tilted. She wants to hit him. But he’s got coffee and, apparently, her story, so she runs another agitated hand through her hair and lets out a long-suffering sigh. God, what a fucking day already, she thinks.

“Fine.” Iris plucks the coffee from his hand. “Let’s go.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, Iris hefts her bag over her shoulder and steps out of line. She walks steadily out of the coffee shop, aware that Barry’s long legs will put him right behind her.

The heat hits her as soon as she leaves the air conditioned building. She walks until they’ve passed the hustle and bustle of people trying to get into and out of Jitters, her heels creating a solid rhythm on the sidewalk. Barry shadows her, nearly blocking her view of the sun.

She doesn’t realize how close he is to her until she pauses to take a pull of her coffee and he almost runs into her.

“Jesus, West,” he mutters, hopping up on his tip-toes to keep from bumping into her.

“Sorry,” she says flatly before up-ending her cup and taking a long swallow of the coffee. It’s hot _,_ but the jolt of caffeine she gets is almost transcendent and worrying about her burning taste buds seem trivial. A moan comes from low in her throat and she closes her eyes for a brief moment, _savoring_. 

When she opens her eyes again, she finds Barry watching her, something unreadable in his expression. Something inside Iris flushes.

“What?” she snaps “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Barry coughs, rubs at his face. “No, uh, no reason.” He drinks from his own coffee cup. “Ready?”

************

They make their way to her office in silence. It is only about a ten minute walk and soon, Iris is punching in her code to get inside her building. The Central City Citizen is housed in a renovated walk-up. Rent is a _steal_ and it still feels like kismet that her neighbors include a private investigator, a lawyer, and a sandwich shop run by an old lady who makes an excellent turkey on rye. Thankfully, her office is on the first floor, and she leads Barry to the end of the hall.

“Brace yourself,” she warns him as she gets to the door of her office and he can’t even open his mouth to ask what she means before she pushes inside.

The first thing they see are the CCPN and Citizen websites projected on a bare wall. Mood music, _this is what we're thankful for (this is what we thank, thank); I can't believe we made it (this a different angle)_ , is blasting from the speakers. The Citizen’s photographer, Kamilla Hwang, is at her desk, sorting through pictures as she dances around her table. Allegra Garcia, the intern, is sitting on top of her desk, her laptop in her lap, a notebook and pen settled next to her. Linda, the other journalist, is zooming around the room on an electric scooter. It helps her gather her thoughts and Iris, with her own writer’s block rituals, is not one to judge.

She jumps a little when she feels Barry’s breath against her ear. “What the heck is happening here?”

Iris shrugs. “It’s just how we work.”

They walk all the way into the office. Kamilla sees them first and she presses a button on her computer to stop the music. That throws the room into stark silence, and Iris fumbles a little at the three gazes that give Barry the once over before they settle on her.

“CSI Allen,” Kamilla says at the same time Linda sings out, “Barry Allen,” with a leery sort of smile that makes even Iris shudder a little bit.

Linda had gone to school with Barry and Iris, a part of the crowd that had been snubbed by self-important science geeks. Linda’s response is a tad different from Iris’s own, her friend taking a perverse pleasure in seeing his cheeks flame. Like now, she places her hand on her hip, the other holding on to her scooter, and gives him another slower once over.

“Looking good, nerd.”

“Linda!” Kamilla admonishes.

Iris looks over at Barry who shakes his head, face flushed, and rubs the back of his neck.

“Hey there, Linda.”

Allegra rolls her eyes to the ceiling and then goes back to her work.

“Welcome to the Citizen,” Iris says, gesturing for him to follow her as he leads her to the interview room, a glass-enclosed space that’s more or less sound proof, so as not to disrupt their working environment. “Most talented women in news and you’d never guess it.”

“Is it always like this?” Barry wants to know.

“No,” she deadpans. “Sometimes we play Rihanna.”

Beyonce begins to croon again and then dulls to a hum as Iris closes the door behind them. Out in the office, they’ve all resumed their work, and it makes Iris smile, seeing her dream come to fruition in this way. It makes Iris ready to work too, and she picks up one of several notepads that litter the table.

“So is there a reason Barnes sent you?” Iris asks him as he ambles over to the other side of the table. “Why not Ramon or Snow?”

“They’re both working on other cases at the moment,” he explains. Then he gives her a sort-of grin. “Plus, I wanted to come by and see you.”

“Oh please, Allen,” she sneers. “The last time you willingly came to see me was in high school when I was sick with the flu and you wanted to take pictures to send Wally while he was away.”

“In my defense,” Barry starts, “you looked exceptionally adorable lying in a blanket of used tissue.”

Iris glares at him for several long seconds.

Barry points at the notebook in her hand. “Should we get started?”

She sits down and opens the notebook. “Only because it’ll get you out of here faster.”

It is easy, though, for Iris to slip into her journalist hat. It’s what she loves, what she thinks is her life’s purpose. She’s always wanted to _know_ things, to understand them. To tell stories that show the what, the why, the _who_ , of humanity, and to do it in a way that preserves humanity.

So she puts aside the natural urge to snipe, the strange push and pull that seems to be a constant when Barry Allen is around, and she lets him tell her the truth. 

“So definite homicide?” Iris asks aloud when Barry’s done explaining the case of Will Jenkins, a 46 year old divorced father of two found dead in his sleep.

“Yes,” Barry affirms. “Toxicology showed traces of arsenic.”

Iris blinks. “Someone is poisoning people?”

“Seems that way.”

“Any leads?”

“That,” he says, “I cannot answer. Barnes was explicit. Just know that they are working diligently to catch the person who did this.”

“Direct quote?”

“Yep.”

Iris writes a few more notes down on her pad and then drops her pen. “Great. I can get this written up and online by this afternoon.”

“That quickly?” Barry is surprised.

“We work hard around here.”

“I believe it,” Barry tells her, tilting his head at her. That quirky little half smile that seems to be a permanent fixture on his face is there and Iris thinks of young Iris and Barry, thinks of play dates, and dirt smeared clothes, and hide-and-go seek with the kids in their neighborhoods. It makes her think of times before they became West and Allen, before that little rush of _something_ started to flutter in her belly when he was around, before they grew up. Before he outgrew her.

It causes Iris to retreat. She sits back in her chair, eyes narrowing, suspicion taking root.

“Alright, what do you want, Allen?”

He at least pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“What do you mean?”

She lifts an eyebrow. He tries again.

“Why do you think I want something, West?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You bought me coffee, for one. You’re being _nice._ ”

“I’m always nice.”

She leans into the table. “No, you’re an asshole.”

“And you’re a sanctimonious p-”

“Hey!" she stops him. "You want something from me!”

Barry settles back in his seat, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. Iris inclines her head, waiting, studying, _not_ watching the moles at his throat as he swallows.

“Alright,” he says. “You’re right. I need a huge favor. And it’s gonna sound strange, but if you do it, I promise I'll owe you. Anything you want.”

That last part interests Iris.

“Are you dying or something? Do you need a kidney? A liver? Because I’ve gotta tell you, college was a wild…”

“West!” Barry calls, stopping her tirade. “I do not need your liver.”

She deflates. “Well, what..?”

“Pretend to be my girlfriend.”

He says it, and it is the only sound in the room for several long, drawn-out moments. They don’t move. They don’t blink. Iris doesn’t even think they _breathe_.

“Ir—”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“Okay, hear me out.”

“Barry, we don’t even like each other.”

“What?” He looks a bit hurt by that, a deep frown settled on his face. “I know that we don’t always get along, but West, I don’t dislike you.”

“Okay.” She waves a hand, choosing to ignore that look. “But that doesn't explain…”

“Alright. Just listen.”

Iris gives him a look that she hopes reads “proceed.”

“You know how every year my parents host the medical gala?”

Iris nods, “sure.”

The Allens, both medical doctors, host an annual charity gala every year in an effort to raise funds for families that cannot afford steep medical bills. The ticket prices are insane and only the “Who’s Who” of Central City get to attend. Needless to say, Iris has never.

“Well, my parents have been hounding me to bring a date this year. Normally, I just ignore it, but since my 30th, it’s been excessive.”

“Aren’t you dating that detective, though? Patty something or other?”

Barry goes as bright as his shirt and fumbles out, “No, no. No, we were kinda just…”

“Oh spare me the details. Please.”

Iris stands, if only to give herself something to do, tapping her nails on the soft cotton of her skirt. Out in the office, Linda and Kamilla are full out dancing and, if she listens, she can hear Lizzo wondering, “ _why men great ‘til they gotta be great?”_

Her move to look out of the window has put her closer to Barry, whose long frame is stretched out in front of him. When she turns to face him, she watches as his eyes run along her frame, from her tall black pumps, up her bare legs. Her fitted black skirt feels tighter under his gaze, her red silk blouse nearly transparent. When he locks on her face, she feels feverish, and confused, and a little bit like she’s drowning.

“There must be other women in your life,” she tries “Women you don’t fight with all the time. Why me?”

He reaches out to grab a hold of her fingers, holding them loosely in his own as he pulls her toward him. She notes, for a moment, the differences in their complexions: his pale, heat flushed skin wrapped around the rich brown of hers. Her feet move on their own volition, until she’s standing between his feet.

“We were friends once, right?” He gives her a shrug. “And I trust you.”

“Won’t your parents know that we aren’t actually together?”

“Not if we sell it.” His answering smile is a little secretive. “And my parents have always liked you, Iris.”

Iris thinks it’s her name that does it, the way it sounds on the tip of his tongue.

“And the favor? It can be anything I ask, right? _Anything?”_

This grin is infectious. “So you’ll do it?”

She only nods. Barry, for his part, jumps up, nearly knocking her backwards.

“Thank you so much, West.” He squeezes her hand once before letting her go. “You’re the best.”

His exuberance, something she hasn’t seen since his 6th grade science fair, startles her so much that she doesn’t even see him coming in to kiss her cheek until he’s already done it and is bounding out of the room with a “I’ll text you the details” on his way out.

Linda finds her like that, _stuck_ , minutes later.

“What the hell was that, Iris?”

She’s still processing when she says, “Allen just asked me to be his girlfriend.”

It takes Linda a while to process that too.


	2. II.

II.

 _“I’_ _d never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you; And I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you”_

As Iris stands outside of the Renaissance Hotel in a formal evening gown, she wonders if it is too late to call the Uber back and go home. She bites as her lip apprehensively, staring up at the elegant hotel, up the long path of stairs leading to the front entrance. One of the last conversations she had with Linda plays on a loop in her head and she cannot figure out if she wants to explore it.

_“This is ridiculous,” Iris said, staring at the dresses in front of her. She shifted the gowns half-heartedly along the silver metal rack. “I should just call him and tell him that this is a ridiculous fucking idea.”_

_“Or,” Linda droned from several racks over. She held two dresses up in front of her, her pretty face pursed as she inspected, dark brown hair piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun. “You could go to this gala in a_ gorgeous _dress, that he is paying for, remember that. And then finally do something about the lusty eyes you and Barry Allen have been giving each other since I met you in 9th grade.”_

_She held up one dress to get a better look, then the other, one a slinky black number and another in a vibrant red._

_“I’m sorry, what?”_

_Iris stopped her lackluster attempt at actually looking for a dress and gave Linda her attention. She did not receive the same courtesy as Linda continued to stare skeptically at the two dresses she held. Then she shook the red dress._

_“This is the one,” she told Iris confidently._

_Iris cast a cursory glance at the dress, noting the deep colored fabric and the v-neckline. Then she shook her head, stepping closer to her friend._

_“Wait. No, Linda, what are you talking about?”_

_Finally, she looked at Iris, her chocolate brown eyes softening._

_“Since I’ve known you, you and Barry Allen have been fake arguing in order to cover up the fact that if either of you offered, you’d absolutely climb into bed together.” She tilted her head. “It was apparent in high school and now, there’s so much tension that it feels almost, almost_ wrong _to watch you two together. Like we’re interrupting.”_

_“No,” Iris took a step back and planted a hand on her hip, shaking her head. “That’s not even remotely true.”_

_“Okay,” Linda said. “I’ll play.” She placed both of the dresses over the rack and crossed her arms across her chest. “The two of you have this weird back and forth, where either one or both of you will say some asshole-ish thing and then you’ll make eyes,” this, she emphasizes with a rapid up and down of her eyebrows, “before, usually, you walk away and he stares after you like a little puppy. Ignore it all you want, but it's a_ thing _Iris._ ”

 _Iris tried to navigate those words, tried to wrap her head around what she was saying. Something tugged at her memory: instances of a tousled haired Barry frowning down at a frazzled Iris, his pale face red (in anger, she’d always figured), her own brown skin heated, cheeks burning, heart beating rapidly as she ripped into him for whatever slight or irksome response he had. They’d been near legendary in school. They’d been the best of friends growing up and something had changed them in the year they’d been apart, him in high school and her still waiting in the wings in 8th grade. Sure, some of his friends had been verbal and, frankly,_ annoying, _in their dislike of Iris’s friends, but something else lived there too. Everyone had been surprised about the shouting matches between Barry and Iris, in how the lanky, mild-mannered boy always talking about concepts like alpha particles, and the pretty, popular, but_ nice, _newspaper student never seemed to get along, despite somehow always navigating in circles that overlapped._

_Still, it wasn’t whatever Linda was trying to make it out to be. It wasn’t anything more than personalities that crashed, people who no longer meshed._

_“That’s absurd,” Iris said and Linda just stared at her for a long moment, appraising. Then she nodded and picked up the red dress, holding it against Iris’s body._

_“This is the one.” She nodded again. “Barry’ll lose his goddamn mind.”_

_He probably would, and suddenly, Iris wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel about that statement._

Standing here now, _there’s so much tension that it feels wrong_ , flashing in her head like a neon sign, Iris decides to attribute Linda’s words to the fact that she is insane.

With a long breath, she makes her way up the flight of stairs to the front door. A tall man in a black suit and tie stands there, clipboard in hand, a small bluetooth communication device in his ear. Most patrons have physical tickets, but as she is a guest of those hosting, her name is put on a list.

“Iris West,” she tells him and, after a quick check, she is nodded in.

The calm of the night is dashed away as she enters the hotel. The large, glittering lobby is decorated in flowers and lights, a white carpet extended from the door to the front entrance of the ballroom. Classically dressed hosts are on double duty, leading guests to the ballroom and wrangling reporters and photographers from various news outlets where they are delegated to a specific section on the side of the carpet.

 _The Citizen_ is not a full year old and still working to make waves, but Iris was able to convince Barry to get a press pass for them. So Linda and Kamilla are there, next to CCPN reporters that Linda is pointedly ignoring, looking resplendent in black dresses. Linda’s dress is form-fitting, off the shoulder, hugging all of her to just under her knees. Her hair is bone straight and her make-up is subtle, except for the bright pink lipstick that looks amazing against her fawn brown skin. She looks bold, fierce, a direct contrast to Kamilla’s more subtle power. In her own sleeveless dress, fitted at the bust, layers of sheer material flowing to her feet, and her shoulder length dark hair in waves, she appears focused as she smiles at a couple, soft pink painted lips curving up, before she raises her camera to her smoky eye to grab the shot.

Iris takes a moment to revel in pride for her team, for the brilliant, beautiful women she’s hired, for the company they’ve built together, four young women of color.

She waves off a host and makes her way over to the pair, just as Kamilla waves to the pair she’s just finished photographing.

“Damn,” Iris sings, just as they turn to her. “You ladies are stunning.”

They take a look at her, jaws dropping.

“Oh my god, Iris, you look beautiful,” Kamilla enthuses.

Linda nods proudly. “I knew that was the dress.”

The red dress is strapless and has a plunging neck, the material hugging her body lovingly. A left split exposes her leg to mid-thigh. She likes the way the brilliant red of the dress looks against the rich tawny brown of her skin, bringing out the warm undertones. In it, she can admit that she feels _electric._

Iris tilts her head, her long, dark waves cascading over her shoulders. “It is a gorgeous dress.”

“You’re welcome,” Linda says, but Iris doesn’t supply her with a response.

Instead, she asks, “Have y’all got any good shots, quotes from anyone interesting?”

“Yep,” Kamilla says. “We got something from the mayor and her wife.”

“And the president of Central City Memorial,” Linda supplies.

“Good, good,” Iris nods, thinking. “This’ll be a good issue. I’ll have to leave early to make sure it’s live by tomorrow morning.”

“Or you could stay,” Linda suggests, “and let Kamilla and I handle it.”

Iris frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you need a break.”

“Exactly,” Linda agrees with Kamilla. “You haven’t been on a date in who knows how long.”

Iris rolls her eyes just as Linda grabs her arm and pulls her back, a little bit away from the other reporters.

“C’mon, Iris, let it be fun. Have a few drinks, dance a little.” She pauses, smiling deviously in a way that makes Iris go instantly on edge. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Iris absently adjusts the black studded wristlet circling her right wrist, startled at the casual way Linda throws out the question. It sends a shiver of confusion down her spine, a shiver of anxiety, of something that makes her run both hot and cold. She thinks it’s that that makes her snap,

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh _babe.”_ The voice sounds in her ear, just as she feels a warm hand settle at her hip. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

Iris stiffens at the sudden contact, at the unfamiliar edge that taints the normally smooth voice. She briefly catches Linda's wide eyes before she moves to turn around.

He doesn’t step away from her right away, so she brushes against his startingly firm chest. His hand seems to linger at her hip, sliding away slowly.

“You are my girlfriend tonight,” he says lowly, and the words are like a faint buzz in her ear as she takes in what he looks like. The black tuxedo fits him like a dream, stretching across the width of his shoulders, tapering to his slim hips, to his long legs, filling out his chest. A bright red bowtie, nearly the exact color of her dress, is settled at his throat.

“That means you can’t make that face you always make when you look at me.”

Her gaze flickers up to meet his. He’s watching her, eyes taking her in, head tilted, a tongue flicking out to wet his pink lips. She thinks she hears a camera snap.

Then, his words sink in.

“Wait,” her hands move on their own accord and settle at her hips. She frowns. “What face are you talking about?”

“The one where just one side of your lips kinda curl up and…” his own mouth ticks up. “The one you’re wearing right now.”

“I don’t always frown at you,” she argues.

“You absolutely do,” Barry retorts.

Iris thinks she snarls. “Well, it’s probably because you’re an actual pain in the ass.”

Barry waves his arms. “You’re the one who snaps at every single thing I say.”

“Because _you’ve_ always got some smart-aleck remark.” This, Iris punctuates with a finger to his chest.

Barry takes a step forward, closes her fingers in one of his big hands, and opens his mouth. “I…”

“Children!” Linda’s harsh whisper makes them both jump. Iris sighs as Barry runs a hand through his hair, making the already tousled waves stick up even more.

It’d always been a tell of his frustration: 6 year old Barry stalking back and forth in the backyard after his parents had told him he couldn’t do something; 11 year old Barry pacing across her kitchen floor, lamenting about that bully Chad Davis; 16 year old Barry yelling at Iris because she’s being deliberately vexing as he tries to get through the interview he’s giving her about the science club’s latest event.

It’s what brings her back to their current reality, to the fact that they’re at an important fundraising event; to the fact that they’re somehow supposed to make these people think they’re together when _this_ always happens; to the fact that she agreed to this.

(To the fact that there is still something nagging at her, telling her that there is a reason he asked her. Telling her that there is a reason she said yes.)

As if seeing the turmoil in her face, Barry holds out a hand to her and nods back toward where the couches litter the lobby, away from the line of people walking into the gala.

“Talk to me a minute.”

Iris takes a shuddering breath and looks at his hand. His fingers are long, graceful looking, though slightly calloused, and she decides to slip her hand in his. Linda gives her a look she can’t read as Barry pulls her away. When they stop a few feet away, he doesn’t let her hand go.

“Listen, West,” he starts. “I know that this is a weird request and if you really don’t want to do this, I get it.”

“Right.” She presses her suddenly sweaty hands to her hips, wiping them down her thighs. “I just...why me, Allen?”

He shrugs in a way that seems to be too calculated for the casual he’s going for. “I told you. I trust you. I know it’s only for this event, but bringing a woman I don’t plan to ever see again to meet my parents doesn’t exactly sit right with me.”

She bites down on her bottom lip. It makes sense, she thinks. _She_ wouldn’t want to introduce a random man to her dad, either.

“We can sell this, right, West?” He squeezes the hand he still holds and tugs at her to bring her closer. Against her better, or _any_ , judgement, she goes, standing almost close enough to be pressed into him. “It’ll be fun. You get freeze booze; the apps are always delicious.” He gives her hand a squeeze. “C’mon, West. Play nice with me for the night?”

His grin is softer than the faintly patronizing one she’s gotten used to. She thinks of his words, ones he’s been uttering at various intervals throughout their lives, and she recalls another scenario where those words were said: 17 year old Iris and 18 year old Barry, cheap shitty beer in their hands as they stood around at Jason Sims’s bon-fire. They’d been demanded a cease-fire and subsequent time out by Linda and Barry’s friend James, ordered to stand around until they stopped yelling. Barry had asked if they could play nice, and Iris had pasted a smile on her face, ignoring the way the fire had danced in his foam blue eyes, and agreed that, “Yes, we can Allen.”

She does that now, nodding, and she thinks it might be worth it to see the way he smiles, full and open.

He leads her back over to where Linda is jotting down notes in her phone as she steps away from a tall, dark-skinned man in a navy tuxedo and glasses.

“Friends again?” Linda asks when she sees them.

“For the night,” Iris affirms.

“Hmm mmm,” Linda hums, looking down at their locked hands and giving Iris her devious smile. Iris decides that she hates that goddamn smile.

“Excellent,” Kamilla says, who goes with the flow in a way that makes Iris glad she hired her. “Can I get a picture of you two?”

“Um?”

“Yeah,” Barry answers. “Come on, West. Why not?”

“Yeah, West,” Linda grins. “Why not?”

“I take it back,” Iris tells them. “It’s you Linda, not Allen, that I’d like to physically harm.”

Barry stands up straighter, eyes wide. "When did you...?"

"Oh, Barry Allen," Linda says, reaching up to pat his cheek. "You beautiful thing. You can't actually be surprised. I can recall three high school occasions where she threated to take your underwear and string you..."

"Alright, alright," Barry jumps in, grimacing. "I remember now."

At that, even Kamilla chuckles and Barry looks at the three of them, shaking his head.

“You think someone has changed and then," he mutters.

“Alright,” Kamilla says, even as she laughs. “Y’all are ruining my focus. Let’s get this picture.”

“Make it cute,” Linda directs. “Maybe give him a kiss.”

“Say what now?” That was Barry.

Iris, instead, makes a face at her meddling friend and, under her direction, does. She moves the hand still in her hand to curve around her waist, presses herself into his side, and then raises to plant a red kiss at his jaw, mere inches from his mouth. He smells _good,_ like rosewood, and warmth, and the disorienting flush of emotions that Iris often finds underlying their interactions. She thinks it’s the reason that she lets her lips linger on his face, that she feels the squeeze of his hand as he brings her closer, flush against him. 

She hears the sound of multiple cameras clicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!  
> So a couple of things: one, we've got lots more at the gala. This was a part of a chapter and it was getting too long so I decided to split them. The other is already over halfway done so I'm pretty sure I'll see you back here next week :)  
> Two, I hope that the two of them don't sound too OOC. The universe is different so they're a little different, but I do hope they still come across as the Barry and Iris we love. Plus, I think that if Barry had grown up with both his parents, he would have been a bit more open and confident, but in a way that's a little snarkier, a little different from the one we know now.
> 
> With all of that, I do hope you enjoyed this chapter. Leave kudos and a quick comment; they always make my day.
> 
> -Elle


	3. III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris has...feelings.

III.

_“What a wicked game you played, to make me feel this way; What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.”_

Iris feels foolish, that she hadn’t actually thought about this event past pretending for Barry, past getting Kamilla and Linda access to the story. This is one of Central City’s biggest events of the year and, in that, a must go-to for the upper echelon, for the city’s elite.

She often forgets that Barry’s family is well off. His parents are two of the top doctors in the state, and while Barry doesn’t make nearly as much as his parents do, his salary as Dr. Allen, chief CSI, is nothing to sneer at. More than that, both sets of grandparents had made a mint, probably doing something faintly illegal, and he stood to inherit a shit ton of money. As children, it hadn’t made much of a difference. Joe West, Iris’s father and a detective for CCPD at the time, had worked long hours to make sure Iris and her younger brother Wally not only had the things they needed, but also the things they wanted. And when Barry and Iris had gone to play at the other’s house, they’d spent more time playing outside than with toys, expensive or otherwise. Iris figures by the time she really would have noticed his parents’ wealth, they had already fallen apart. She notices now.

“Fucking A,” she mumbles as she and Barry walk into the ballroom. She hears his chuckle as he looks down at her briefly.

“It’s so over the top, right?”

Her gaze sweeps around the room. The ballroom is elegantly decorated: a few round tables are spattered around the room and covered in stark white tablecloths; ivory and mustard honey wildflower arrangements and glittering candles direct attention to the center of those tables. Floral garlands in a similar color scheme hang from the rooms. It’s a literal dream.

She spots the wait staff in customary black and white (though with the addition of a yellow tie or yellow flower stuck in the waiter’s hair), carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne filled flutes. They weave around the exquisitely dressed patrons, sharp tuxedos and gorgeous gowns in abundance. There is something inherently glamorous about this event, despite it’s altruistic origins.

“They did go all out,” Iris agrees.

“It wouldn’t be a Henry and Nora Allen event if they didn’t.”

His words come across as faintly bitter and Iris glances up at him, just as his jaw ticks. As if he feels Iris watching him, he looks down at her, giving her a crooked smile.

She opens her mouth to ask—well, what exactly, she isn’t sure—but he steers her further into the room. They pass a server carrying champagne and Barry lets her hand go to grab them both flutes.

“We’re gonna need to start drinking if we plan to make it through the night.”

Iris accepts the glass from him as she wonders, “Why? The papers aren’t always forthcoming about what goes on at these galas, other than who shows up.”

She takes a sip of the tart champagne and then gives him a grin of her own. “Do they make you sing for entertainment? Play the obo like you tried to do when we were kids?”

They walk deeper into the gala, finding a space off in the corner not too far from a cash bar. They have a view of nearly the entire room.

“Ooh.” She does a little jump, turning to face him. “Do they play a slideshow of you as a baby?”

Barry rolls his eyes at her. “Not so loud. I have no doubt that if Mom heard you, she’d try to find a way to incorporate all of those things into next year’s gala.”

“Hmmm,” Iris hums. “Maybe it’d help donations. Baby Allen was cute.”

His grin changes a little, sea green eyes flashing. “What about Adult Allen?” He angles his body towards her, _ever so slightly,_ and tilts his head, waiting for an answer.

“Dr. Barry Allen.”

A relaxing voice calling his name blessedly keeps her from having to answer. They both turn to find an older, white-haired gentleman smiling genially at them. Upon recognition, Barry stands straighter, a wide smile sliding onto his face as he reaches out to shake the man’s hand.

“Professor Stein! It’s so good to see you. I just finished reading your research on transmutation and it is fascinating. The way you articulate how the use of particle accelerators can strike elements with alpha particles and…”

Noting the amused expression on the professor’s face, Iris tugs at the elbow of Barry’s jacket to quiet him. He takes stock of them both and color blossoms in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I get a little excited.”

“Yes, nerd,” Iris says, not unkindly. “We know.”

Barry makes a face at her and then turns back to the professor.

“Indeed we do,” he adds, shooting a smile at Iris. “And Mr. Allen, who is this lovely young lady?”

“Oh! Sorry, Professor Stein.” He waves a hand as if presenting her. “This is my girlfriend, Iris West, editor at the _Central City Citizen_.”

Iris starts at the way he introduces her, at the way something like pride colors his tone. Recovering quickly, she holds out a hand to Stein.

“It’s really nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he says. “My wife and I have an online subscription to your newspaper. We think it’s wonderful.”

“Wow. Thank you so much.”

They speak to him for a few moments more before he sees a colleague and ambles off.

“First person down,” she says. “You think he bought it?”

“Of course,” he says. “It absolutely makes sense that I’d be dating a fancy newspaper editor.”

Iris drains her glass before responding.

“Have you always been a dick or is this a new character trait?”

He smiles down at her, unbothered. “West, you wound me.”

“Oh but he absolutely is a dick.” They are startled again by a voice that comes from beside them. A handsome brown-skinned man comes into view, his man-bun and beige tuxedo making Iris smile. “It’s just that his smile and all that crime solving lets him get away with it.”

“Cisco!”

This exuberant greeting is different. Both of them jump to give the other a hug, and when they seperate, they engage in a complicated handshake that makes Iris look around to make sure no one is watching them. They aren’t; people are drinking, inhaling puff pastries, and mingling. A five-piece band has started playing at the front of the room, a upbeat, funky tune.

“Iris West.”

She turns back to them as her name is called. “Hey there, Ramon.”

She realizes she shouldn’t be, but she is surprised when she’s suddenly wrapped in Cisco’s arms, the pleasant scent of sandalwood an unexpected comfort. Cisco is one of the two CSIs that work alongside Barry, the other being Caitlin Snow. Of the two, she is more comfortable around Cisco, though his movie puns and easy-going manner would have made him hard to resist.

She pulls away slowly, still holding on to his arms, a soft smile on her mouth.

“Always a pleasure, boss lady.” He gives her an appreciative full body once-over. “And you look fucking gorgeous. I mean, this dress…”

“Alright, alright,” Barry grumbles, breaking their hug and wrapping an arm around her waist. Cisco stumbles back.

Iris watches an exchange between them, told entirely through facial expressions.

Cisco smirks. “She’s not your real girlfriend, Bear.”

“No, well, everyone here thinks so, and you feeling all over her doesn’t help.”

Iris rolls her eyes at whatever thing that’s happening that she doesn’t understand, and clasps her hand with the one at her waist, intending to move it. Instead, he grips her tighter and brings her closer.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “There go my parents.”

Iris blinks at the sudden outburst, following where Barry has subconsciously pointed his body. Her conversations with the professor and Cisco had been brief, but in that time, it seems the crowd has grown massively. The wait staff is busy as they offer the guests countless glasses of champagne and toothpicks laden with blocks of cheese of pork.

The band changes the song to something jazzy and Iris sees a few people shaking their shoulders and rocking their hips a little to the music. Two women Iris assumes haven’t seen each other in years squeal when they meet and hug, their partners sharing an amused look over their heads. A line has formed at the bar, and as she feels the nervous tension radiating from Barry’s lean body, she wishes she had something stronger than what was in her champagne class.

Cisco gives them both a weighted look. “I’ll let you handle the parents on your own.” He pats Barry on the back and gives Iris a smile. “I’ll see you both later.”

He meanders off and Iris notices that the Allens have been stopped by a couple in matching tuxedos. She is unsure of whether they’ve seen her and Barry, though Barry is definitely still watching them. Frowning, she moves around to stand in front of him, catching his attention. The hand at her waist slides around to settle at the small of her back. The move puts her closer to him and she’s startled at just how tall he is, even with the heels that put her closer to his height.

“Hey, Allen,” she calls his name. He looks down at her and something in his eyes makes her reach up and place a hand against his cheek. “Are things okay with you and your parents?”

He takes a moment to think, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Yes,” he says slowly, as if he is unsure if that’s what he means to say. “They’re just stressed, I think. Mid-life crisis, maybe. And their way of dealing with it has been to focus on the gala and hound me about being married with children by the time I’m 32.”

Iris hums. “Luckily, my dad still considers me too young to be thinking about marriage, so there’s that.”

That seems to make Barry thoughtful and he tilts his head. “Why aren’t you dating anyone?”

“Who says I’m not?”

Barry lifts an eyebrow. “If you were, I’m certain you wouldn’t have said yes to this.”

“Fine, I’m not.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. It never seems like the right time.” She mirrors his expression. “What about you and that detective? Why aren’t y’all anything more than boink buddies?”

He gives her a blank look. “Boink buddies?”

“It works.”

Barry laughs then, and it’s an arresting sound: jovial and deep, coming from a place Iris hasn’t been acquainted with in years. His laugh jostles them and Iris finds herself so close to Barry that it almost might be inappropriate now. He doesn’t seem to notice it.

“Well,” he says, hand flexing at her waist. “We didn’t seem to fit.”

“You sure? Y’all seemed to have been pretty hot and heavy. Something must have fit.”

His face reddens immediately and Iris guffaws, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Jesus, West.” He looks down at the floor, hoping to hide how red his cheeks still are.

For a moment, Iris doesn’t think that the heat she feels in her chest or the rapid-fire beating of her heart have much to do with the anger, the annoyance, the _vexation,_ she usually feels when she’s with Barry. Those emotions Iris doesn’t feel at all right now, and she panics, eyes going wide. She steps away from Barry’s grasp, and he pulls away, although his arms stay within reach.

“West,” he tries, but then a deep voice rumbles, “As I live and breath, Iris West,” from beside them.

They whip around to see Barry’s parents standing together, hands clasped. Iris had always been in awe of the love the Allens had for each other, even a little bit jealous. Her mother had died soon after Wally was born, but even before then, her parents hadn’t been in love the way the Allens had. They’d fought almost constantly, if they even talked at all, and Iris hadn’t understood, even at 5 and 6 years old, how they stayed together when they so clearly hated each other.

When the cancer had come for her mom, painful and quick, it had been devastating. Iris had had to watch her mother’s life drain away with the same eyes she’d watched the guilt rack her father. Joe and Francine West had been merely living their lives side by side when she’d found out she was dying—and that there was no way to stop it—and that fact had tore her father apart just as much as her mother’s death did.

It was during this time that she and Barry really became friends, that they went from merely hanging out because their parents were friends to growing close. She’d clung to Barry in those days, spending as much time at his house as was allowed, having dinner with the Allens several times a week, when a depressed father and a toddler became too much for a young girl. It was then she’d seen the love the Allens had for each other, a love she had never quite witnessed in real life. She’d loved her parents, had known they loved she and Wally from the bottoms of their hearts, but she’d wished she’d gotten to see them when they were in love, before kids and life and change had pulled them apart.

She thinks about that now as her gaze sweeps over the Allens. They look stunning, Henry Allen is in a tuxedo that mirrors his son’s, and Nora is in white, her bodice beaded before it flares from her waist out in silk as it falls to the floor. It’s been years since she’s seen the older Allens. She knows that her dad and his wife still get together with them occasionally, whenever two doctors, a police captain, and a district attorney manage to have time, but she hasn’t lived with her dad in quite some time and she thinks that was the last time she’d seen them.

They look as she’s always remembered them, albeit older. They’ve got the same kind smiles that Barry has for everyone but her, and eyes that sparkle with mirth in the same way that Barry’s do, though they aren’t the blue-green color that makes Iris a little bit weaker than she’d like to admit.

“Mr. and Mrs. Allen,” she greets them, her genuine smile wide and open.

“Oh none of that,” Mrs. Allen said. “Call us Nora and Henry.”

“Of course.”

They greet Barry who, despite whatever he’s feeling about them, grins as he hugs his dad and presses a kiss to his mom’s cheek.

“You didn’t tell us you were bringing Iris.” This was Henry.

They all watch Barry run a nervous hand down the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’ve just been hanging out.”

Iris shakes her head at that eloquent answer. “We’ve only been dating for a couple weeks,” she tells them. “We’re still feeling it out.”

That makes Nora beam. “I’m really glad you two found each other again.”

Henry opens his mouth to say something more, until a stern looking woman in a long gray gown walks up to them.

“Sorry to interrupt, Drs. Allen,” she says. “But we’re ready for you to give the welcome.”

Barry had explained that though the gala was largely informal—there was no sit-down dinner, no distinguished guests—the Allens did give a welcome and a reminder to peruse the foundation’s website to find out more about how to get involved.

Henry nods at the woman as she walks away.

“Well, duty calls.” He places a hand on Iris's shoulder. “It’s always a pleasure seeing you, Iris.”

“Thank you, Henry.”

“I know we’ll see you both a bit later,” Nora says, “but let’s plan to get dinner sometime soon. Iris, I'm dying to catch up. Barry call us and set it up.”

“Of course, mom.”

Iris and Barry wave them away, watching Henry hold his arm out for Nora to talk, as they disappear behind the curtain.

Barry lets out a long, low breath and turns to her. “That went okay, right?”

“What did you think would happen?” Iris asks.

Barry shrugs. “I’m not sure. I shouldn’t have been worried. My parents love you.”

“I am good with parents,” Iris agrees.

Barry sighs. “Right. Let’s get a drink.”

He grabs her hand and walks her over to the bar.

She lets him lead her.

************

The next hour passes in a blur of one-armed hugs and handshakes. The Allens give a brief speech highlighting the history of the gala and all of the good it’s done over the years. This leads her and Barry on a whirlwind schmoozing fest, as Barry is thanked and congratulated on his work with CCPD. All the while, Iris stands pressed against him. He only lets her go to shake hands or give hugs, and then he’s pulling her right back into him, introducing her with a smile and pride she’s only ever seen from her father. That gets her several business cards and looks of impress as they realize she’s the mind behind Central City’s newest hot newspaper.

Still, it’s playing this game with Barry that makes her a little wary. She has never been overly fond of PDA, never felt the need to be so close to her significant other at all times. But, and she’ll only admit this under duress (or under the safety of her covers, late late at night), that she likes to be close to him. She likes the clean smell of him, and his slightly calloused fingers as they hold onto her hand, or slide down her arm, or press against her waist in a way that makes her wish it was her bare flesh. She doesn’t _like_ Barry, she hasn’t in some time, but her body hasn’t yet figured out how to cooperate with the rest of her.

They manage to see Linda and Kamilla again, standing against a wall with champagne in their hands. Kamilla is talking to Cisco, who’s got an arm against the wall beside her and is so obviously trying to spit game that it causes Iris to snicker out loud, catching the attention of all their friends.

“Sorry,” Iris mumbles as Kamilla goes red and Cisco looks upset at being interrupted. Linda rolls her eyes fondly and steps away from the two to stand closer to Barry and Iris.

“Thanks again, Allen,” Linda says to him after a sip from her glass. “Kamilla and I were able to get a significant amount of interviews and pictures. Tomorrow’s issue is going to be amazing.”

“I’m happy I could help.”

She nods and then looks at them again, this time longer. “How has your night been?”

“Great,” Barry says. He squeezes her hand. “I’m going to go get us drinks.”

The two of them watch as Barry ambles away, his gait straight and confident.

“That is not the Barry Allen we went to high school with,” Linda says.

Iris sighs. “Tell me about it.”

“So how’s it really going?”

“Fine,” Iris says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Linda lifts an eyebrow. “Has he professed his undying love for you yet?”

Iris is startled. “What the fuck, Linda?” She twirls around to make sure Barry hasn’t come back yet. She spots him a little ways away, talking to a pretty dark haired woman, her hand on his arm.

“Who is that?” Iris finds herself wondering, frown marring her face. 

She knows she doesn’t imagine the smirk in Linda’s voice when she replies, “Molly Shepherds. She works at the hospital with his parents.”

Iris turns to her, her hair grazing her shoulder blades. “How do you know that?”

Linda shrugs. “I know everyone. But let’s talk about why you care who that is.”

“What? I don’t.”

“You are being so dense.”

“And you’re being ridiculous.”

Linda nods before hooking her arm through Iris’s. “Fine, West. I’ll let it go. But I’m definitely talking about this in my maid-of-honor speech.”

Iris doesn’t even give her a response. 

“Look, there’s a woman who’s been watching me for some time now. I think I’m gonna go make my move.”

With that, Linda glides across the room before stopping next to a pretty dark skinned woman with fire-red dreads wearing a pale yellow gown. Iris turns back to where she last saw Barry and finds him walking towards her, flutes in his hand. When he reaches her, he hands her the glass, which she takes gratefully.

“Thanks,” she mutters, taking a long swallow.

He nods. “Hey, West?”

She raises her eyebrow in question.

“I just wanted to thank you, for tonight. I know we aren’t exactly friends, but I don’t think I could have gotten through the night without you.”

He gives her a kind smile, the kind that Barry gives to small children and little old ladies and families of victims who’ve come to him for answers. It’s the Barry everyone else sees, the one she hasn’t known in who knows how long, and her smile tightens.

“Oh, Allen, I have no doubt you would have been able to charm all these people out of their money without me.”

He lifts a shoulder, even as he moves closer, invading her space. “Maybe.” He reaches up and she stills, wary of where he’s aiming. She doesn’t stop him, though, as he reaches up and touches the tip of two of his fingers to the other side of her chin. “But I’m pretty sure it’s this smile that really sold them. Not me.” His thumb he lets trace the edge of her jaw, and then trace the plump curve of her lower lip. She watches as he locks his eyes were hers, his pupils dilating, the darkness threatening to overtake the pretty color of his irises. 

Her breath comes a bit quicker and she runs her tongue over her mouth. The little gasp he makes at the slight touch of her tongue to his thumb is her undoing, and she quickly steps away from him.

“I-”

“I’m gonna go to the restroom,” she tells him. She thrusts her glass into his hand and walks as casually as she can out of the room, muttering to herself. _Goddamnit_. _Get a grip, West. You don’t like him._

Iris isn’t surprised by the restroom’s opulence. The sitting room meets her on the other side of the door: an overstuffed rose colored couch and matching cream armchair, coordinating side tables on either side of the couch topped with flowers in crystal vases. There are three stalls past the sitting room on the left and across from those are low sinks that allow for long mirrors surrounded by excellent lighting.

She steps in front of the mirror, dropping her wristlet down on the counter, and then she looks up to stare at her reflection. Her eyes are bright, the way they tend to get if she’s drank too much, though she’s only had a couple of glasses of champagne. Even to her own eyes, she looks flustered, the red undertones in her skin more visible in this light. Her hair is still in place, and her lipstick is still intact, but she still looks on edge. That is not too far from the truth.

She feels shaky, her body, her emotions, in a riot, a massive storm she can’t figure out how to evade. She is not this person, this nervous, unsure, unsteady mess of a being. But he does this, he’s always done this, been able to make her laugh and cry and _get angry_ in equal measure. As kids they’d always laughed, making jokes and pranking each other until they’d fallen to the ground in mirth, giggling til their sides ached. In the latter years of middle school, at the beginning of high school, their changing dynamic had been hard, had left a painful, open gape not unlike the one still missing from her mother’s death, and that had only started to abate when she’d met Linda. After that, the anger has been easy to hang on to.

She’d just somehow forgotten everything but the anger part. 

Before he’d come back to intern at CCPD while working on his doctorate, after having completed six years of education in four, she hadn’t seen much of him. He’d been in some accelerated program at a university in Star City and she had stuck around Central City for school, both because it’s where Linda had gotten in and because she had wanted to keep an eye on her dad and Wally. Then she had gotten a copywriter position with CCPN and had started shadowing reporters there. One fact finding mission two years into her job there had taken her to the crime scene office at the police station.

Her feelings after seeing him again after all that time had been two-fold. There had been a feeling of nostalgia _,_ a pang that had felt quite like _missing him._ But then there had been something else too, something aching, something like yearning, something a bit more titillating. He’d grown up, grown out, and Iris hadn’t quite been ready.

He had taken one look at her—or maybe several; it’s all a little blurry now—and he’d immediately smirked, calling out “Well, hey there, West,” and it had sounded so much like him in high school that she had immediately snapped.

Not her proudest moment, she’ll admit.

But she feels like that now, life she wants to snap, like she’s not ready. Like she’s straddling a fence, built up over nearly two decades, and she can’t figure out which side she’s on.

Or which side he’s on.

She takes another couple moments to gather herself, to steel herself before she goes back to the party. The upbeat strum of a keyboard greets her as she walks out of the restroom. She hears the joy emanating from the ballroom and takes another minute to stand just out of sight of the door. She figures the drinks are still flowing and Barry has found someone to talk to so she’s got a couple seconds before she’s really missed.

Behind her, she hears the door to one of the restrooms open and the steps on the floors before they come to a halt. She looks up in curiosity just as someone beside her says her name.

She turns to see an old CCPN superior, Scott Evans. For a brief time, Scott had been a little more than a friend, and she’s reminded of why. The man is tall, _handsome,_ with tawny brown skin and a soft beard that frames a full mouth. He fills out his white tuxedo and he gives Iris a smile when she looks up into his big brown eyes.

“Iris West,” he rumbles again.

“Hey there, Scott.”

“It’s been a while,” he says.

She nods. “It has,” she tells him, though she couldn’t say she has missed him in that time.

Their brief dalliance had been so brief because of his not so infrequent comments about her lack of writing skill. At a point so critical in her career, it had been disheartening to hear that he thought she still had “such a long way to go.” She hadn’t been, and isn’t, above criticism, but that had seemed to hint at an insecurity that had more to do with Scott. No matter how attractive, Iris had drawn the line at his lack of support.

“So how have things been going for you?” Scott wonders, pulling at her attention. He gives her a small grin, flashing his straight white teeth at her. “I’ve just been appointed new Editor-in-Chief at _Picture News_.”

“Yes, I heard,” she feigns excitement. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Yeah, so what have you been up to?”

Iris tilts her head. She knows that he knows about _The Citizen._ It’s his job to know, to be aware of other news sites on his radar. She knows this game too, this ridiculous play of haughty disinterest that plagues their business. She hadn’t been interested in that environment while there, it being part of the reason she decided to go out on her own. She still doesn’t enjoy it and she won’t give him the satisfaction of playing.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” she says. “You know what, Scott-”

_“Oh babe.”_

It’s not the first time he’s walked up on her unannounced, uttering those very same words, and it’s not the first time there’s been a flutter in her belly and the release of a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Barry slides a long arm around her waist, bringing her close so that he can press a kiss to her temple.

“Barry-”

“Don’t be so humble,” he says as he turns his attention to Scott. She makes note of Barry’s gaze, the cocky little smirk that slides onto his face. She thinks she likes that smirk, when it isn’t directed at her.

“Iris is the founder and editor of _The Citizen._ ”

Scott’s own gaze flicks between the two of them and it only takes him a second to recognize who Barry is and his importance to this event.

“Introduce us, babe,” Barry said, although he doesn’t turn away from Scott. Scott stands up straighter, and though he’s got a couple inches on Barry, that doesn’t keep Barry from looking him directly in the eyes. Iris rolls her eyes at this blatant display of masculinity.

“Barry, this is Scott Evans. Scott, this is Barry Allen.”

“Her boyfriend,” Barry asserts as he holds his free hand out for Scott to shake.

Scott does, despite his clear wish to decline. “A pleasure, man.” He mumbles something about seeing someone that he needs to talk to and then he walks away.

As soon as he’s no longer in sight, Iris slides out of Barry’s grasp and turns to face him.

“What the hell was that?”

His brows furrow in confusion as he holds his hands up in question. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t actually be confused.”

“And yet, I am.”

She affects a slightly deeper voice. “Hi, I’m Barry Allen, my parents are rich, and I want you to think I’m banging your ex-girlfriend.”

His eyes go wide for a moment before they narrow. He moves closer to her, though the move doesn’t seem necessarily deliberate.

“What the fuck, West? I was _defending_ you.”

“Oh, please. None of that was about me.” She shakes her head. “You should’ve just asked me. I would have held the ruler when you both whipped it out.”

Later than night, Iris will play this scene again, over and over, as she attempts to fall asleep. She’ll try (and fail) to make sense of what happened, will try to understand the emotions it brings up: the shiver along her spine; the rolling, tumbling feelings in her stomach; the wet heat between her thighs.

Barry’s body stills, and his eyes drop to her mouth. He seems tense, his body coiled. Iris has seen him like this only few times before, and only in anger, in frustration. But the growing gray in his eyes doesn’t tell of anger. It hints at something else, something that makes heat unfurl lower in her belly, something that calls attention to the hardening nipples pressing against her dress. Something that makes her clit throb.

She’s not ready, not even remotely prepared when he reaches for her, but she follows him anyway, allowing herself to fall into his chest. She has only mere moments to take note of the strength of his arms as they circle her waist, one big hand spread wide against the small of her back. She has only mere moments to take note of how hard his body is, how _solid_ he is.

She only has a moment because then he’s kissing her. _He’s kissing her,_ his mouth fuller, softer, than she expected. The kiss itself is urgent. If not for the electric feeling that courses through her, she’s almost sure she’d have hesitated, paused. She doesn’t though. She meets him halfway, all the way, easing a hand up to rest against his shoulder, opening up her mouth for him. He takes the bait, licking into her, his velvet tongue exploring.

She wants to explore on her own, so she lets her fingers tip up, up the warm skin of his neck, along the hard curve of his jaw, until she reaches the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She tangles her fingers in it and he deepens the kiss in response, caressing her jaw with his free hand, coaxing her wider for him. Iris finds that she likes the taste of him, hot and sweet. His hand presses harder against her back, bringing her so close she can feel his length against her belly, hard and insistence.

Her own moan is like water dousing her. She yanks her face away from his, snatches her body back. She can’t look at him yet, but she doesn’t have to to know that he’s breathing just as hard as she is, that his heart feels as if it’s going to burst from his frame, just as hers does.

“Fuck,” he says, voice harsh, and it’s what makes her face him. His eyes are still darker than they should be, dazed over. Her lipstick is all over his mouth. The expression he gifts her with is _raw,_ she knows no other way to describe it, and that is what scares her.

“Barry, I’ve got, I’ve,” she picks up her clutch from where it had fallen when she wrapped her arm around him and she starts to back away from him.

“Iris,” he tries to stop her, reaching out for her.

She evades his grasp and turns in the direction of the door. “Don’t follow me, Allen.”

She doesn’t know how she feels that he actually doesn’t.

The rest of her nights happens in spurts of awareness: she manages to grab one of the cabs waiting outside of the event, slamming the door closed as she urges him to her apartment; she undresses in the quiet darkness of her home, taking her makeup off and falling into bed in nothing but a t-shirt and her panties, with a glass of water she remembers to put next to her bedside.

She falls into a fitful sleep, dreaming of blue-green eyes and soft lips, and the way Barry’s hand had felt on her waist.

When she awakes the next morning, she feels confused and disoriented and she searches for her phone to see the time. She digs it out of her bag, noting the 22% battery life left, and finds she’s got a slew of text messages. The two she notices first are from Barry and Wally.

_Barry: I’m sorry, Iris._

She quietly closes that one out, willing to ignore everything that comes with thinking about it. She opens the one from her brother.

_Wally: I just saw the article. You and Barry Allen? What the fuck, Iris? Call me!_

Attached is a link to an article from _Picture News_. She clicks the link and it takes her to where a headline is printed on the screen and big bold letters.

**Barry Allen and His New Lady Love; Everything you need to know about Iris West!**

Eyes wide, Iris drops her phone on the bed and falls back covering her face with a pillow.

“Well, fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was slight emotional rollercoaster as Iris figures out where her head is at, but I had a fun time writing it. This obviously isn't the end of the fake dating saga. I'm thinking this will be about 9 chapters and every 3rd will be from Barry's point of view. So next chapter will be from the man himself.  
> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> As usual, comments and kudos make me happy. Say hi :)
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle <3


	4. IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry's got some thoughts.

IV.

_“What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way; what a wicked thing to do, make me dream of you.”_

It is a testament to how into his own head he was that he doesn’t notice her come in. The office is quiet, except for the soft jazz instrumental playing from his speakers. Cisco and Caitlin, the other two CSIs in this precinct, are out together on a case and he’s glad for the momentary reprieve. He’s comparing soil samples from various areas of Central City to try to determine possible place of death for a body dumped behind an old motel. It isn’t mindless work, but it doesn’t require all of his faculties either. He uses the time to think of Iris instead.

It’s been nearly a week since the gala, nearly a week since he’s seen her. The one message he’d sent her has gone unacknowledged in all that time and he hasn’t found the courage to make another attempt. Still, that hasn’t kept the memory of her that night—beautiful and fierce and, for a moment, _his—_ from staring in his everyday thoughts. It plagues him, that memory, there when he wakes, there as he falls into inescapable nights of fitful sleep.

He can still feel her: her mouth on his, warm and yielding; her body in his hands, the deep curve of her spine, the supple flesh of her hip; the way she had pressed into him, flush against him, her body so unbelievably soft. He can still fucking _taste_ her, the faint traces of her lipstick, the champagne on her tongue, the otherwise honeyed taste that he recognizes must just be her.

It’s making him antsy, restless, a little bit angry, _horny,_ and it’s a feeling that’s both vexatious and entirely too normal. He’s been half gone on her for as long as he’s known her, been nearly obsessed with her for as long as his memory serves him: since she had been taller than him, a firecracker who’d managed to show him interests outside of biology and chemistry; since she’d been the resident queen at Central City High, arousing him and frustrating him in equal measure. Even when he’d moved away for school, he’d hoped—prayed—that out of sight meant out of mind. It hadn’t, but he’d only gotten glimpses of her in the short years he was away. He had been able to push her to the back of his mind, to think of her warm brown skin and her dark doe eyes and way too pretty smile, only when loneliness descended in the dark corners of the night. He won’t talk about how often that had still managed to be.

Coming back to Central City should have been a new start for him, for them; a chance to put aside old hurts and old angers and, at the very least, be cordial again. He’d been prepared to do that whenever he saw her again. Except, he hadn’t actually been prepared to see her _at all._ It’d blindsighted him, confused him. She’d been wearing a red dress (because red is his favorite color and _of fucking course_ she had been), her hair hanging down her back, and she’d somehow gotten even more gorgeous (which still seems improbable because she’s always been the prettiest girl he’s ever seen). She’d also been wearing a faintly distasteful expression that he hadn’t understood, that had reminded him too much of old times. It had made his head hurt, made something cold shudder through him. It had even, he’s ashamed to admit, turned him on and he thinks this strange blend of feelings is the only explanation for his response to her.

He’s blocked out whatever it is he said to her, but he remembers the way her full, pouty mouth had moved to a full out frown and how her deep brown eyes had darkened with contained anger. So much for starting over.

“Barry?”

He is so into his thoughts of her that, for a moment, he wonders if she’s only speaking in his head. But then she says his name again, concern tainting the edge of her voice, and he blinks, sitting up straighter.

She lurches into his view, the rich green of her silk jumpsuit catching his attention first. His eyes travel down and he takes in the tall, nude pumps she’s wearing and then back up to study the curve of her waist, the curve of her hips, in the fitted silk. There is but the barest hint of cleavage, the gold necklace she’s wearing settled comfortably just above it. He takes in her face—well, he only gets as far as noticing the deep plum lipstick before he short circuits.

“Barry, are you okay?”

The sound of her voice brings him back again and he startles. “Iris!”

He jumps up, his stool toppling to the floor as he does. He frowns at it, “damnit,” and then at himself because this always happens to himfumbling, bumbling Barry, the one he thought he’d left behind in middle school—when he doesn’t have enough time to prepare for being around her.

“What are you doing here?”

Even he winces at the unintentionally harsh way the words spill out. He watches her face rearrange itself into a glare before she spits, “fuck you, Allen,” at him as she turns to leave.

“Wait, no,” he hurriedly rounds the table and chases after her, grabbing her wrist to stop her. His hand covers her entire wrist, and it stops him short. He doesn’t let her go yet as he tries to catch her eyes. He only sees the top of her head, though, and the fashionably messy bun she’s thrown her hair in. Her gaze is on where he’s touching her, and it’s that unreadable expression that makes him pull away from her slowly.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he tells her as he rubs a hand on the back of his neck. “I, uh…” Her gaze is wary and he wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on the sides of his khaki chino pants.

“What’s up?” he tries again.

She doesn’t answer him right away. She walks away from his desk and moves around the room. She’s careful not to touch anything, instead just letting her eyes drift along tables littered with microscopes, petri dishes, powders, chromatographs, and brushes.

He tracks her as she moves, her hands firmly in the pockets of her jumpsuit. He can't begin to know why she’s here, especially since she hasn’t said anything to him other than his name. He wants to ask her what she wants, what’s going on, if she feels as scattered as he does.

He opens his mouth to question her but Iris beats him to it. “Are you free for a little while? Can we go grab a coffee?”

Technically, he isn’t free. He’s taking a mandatory vacation in a couple of weeks—apparently, the city frowns at too much overtime—and he’s got several cases to close before he does. But as she looks up at him, her chocolate brown eyes captivating, her teeth biting down on the left side of her plump bottom lip, one of the settings that tells him that he can’t refuse her definitely turned on, he replies, “sure.”

Their walk to Jitters is quiet, a small sort of sense of dejavu present as he remembers the last time they’d travelled this route. He thinks that this time he does a better job of watching his surroundings and not the enticing sway of her hips. Although, if he’s honest, he does temporarily lose his train of thought when he finds himself close enough to smell the floral scent of her hair.

Nonetheless, their walk is uneventful. The hot sun beats down on the pavement and the outdoor patios of the sidewalk cafes and restaurants are full as people sip cool beverages under multicolored umbrellas.

When he and Iris were in high school, their respective friends groups would often find places like this to waste time before trudging home to complete homework. More often than not, they’d see each other, there are only so many places teenagers can hang out in Central City, and he recalls long afternoons drinking milkshakes, trading insults in between wondering if her hair was really as soft as it looked blowing against her bare shoulders.

She’s been a part of his life for so long, in so many of the ways that it’s ever counted, that he often forgets the way the world sees the two of them, the way she does. They’re so entwined that even their arguments just seem like a part of them, a part of the natural order of things: the sky is blue, water is wet, Barry and Iris fight. In that, Barry forgets that they _don’t_ always like each other, that there is always a little truth in her taunts— _you’re such a snobbish little shit, Allen—_ and that he doesn’t always lie when he yells _you’re so emotional, it’s a wonder you get anything done._

It makes for long introspective moments, like now, because even with that in the back of his mind, he cannot deny that he’d do anything she asks of him, even if it means tumbling to his own heartbreak.

Jitters is nearly empty in the early afternoon. He holds the door open as she sweeps in and she turns to tell him, “coffee is on you.” 

His eye roll is automatic. “Of course it is.”

She smiles sunnily, Barry curses under his breath, and he ventures over to the counter to where the barista is looking intrigued. He knows her, a woman who’s been working at Jitters since he’s been back in town. Her hair is always different, and today her dark, kinky curls are piled up into a simple puff on top of her head. The brilliant purple streaks do offer a glimpse into her larger than life personality.

“Hi Natalia,” he greets her.

“Hey.” She grins at him, casting a quick glance towards Iris. “It seems like y’all are having a cordial day.”

“Yeah, well,” he follows her line of sight. “The day is young.” 

Iris has chosen a table near the window and isn't looking in his direction. It is probably for the best. His lost puppy look probably won't help them any.

Natalia laughs. “I would never have guessed y’all were together. Me and some of the other baristas talked about you guys and some of your more epic arguments in here. I was really surprised when I saw that article about y’all in the paper.”

Barry doesn’t know how, but in between thinking about Iris and wondering if he should call her or continue to ignore her, he had completely forgotten about the article that had appeared in Central City News. 

It comes flooding back to him, that headline on several different online newspapers: _Allen Heir and Newspaper Newcomer in Love_. It had all been ridiculous, more speculation than anything. He’ll admit that the articles probably helped in their respective fields, as they talked more about Iris and Barry as people because they had no actual facts about their supposed relationship.

“Oh those,” he grimaces. “We definitely weren’t gunning for full newspaper spreads to out our relationship.”

Natalia gives him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I know that can’t be fun.”

“Definitely not.”

She punches in their drink orders and Barry hands over his card for a sum that is markedly less than it should be, and she winks as she walks away to prepare their coffees. She returns with their drinks, a large dark roast with almond milk for Iris and, for him, a medium roast with cream and sugar.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Natalia says as she passes him their cups. “y’all make a damn cute couple.”

“Thanks, Natalia.” It’s always nice to have someone in the corner of their fake relationship. 

“See ya, Barry.”

He nods at her as he grabs the two paper cups and takes them back to the table. It isn't until she sits the cups down that Iris turns to face him. He slides the coffee over to her and she takes it with a nod of thanks.

He drinks from his own as she does from her and he watches the flutter of emotion that crosses her face. What she settles on is something between confoundment and petulance and it makes Barry frown in disappointment.

“Why the long face?” he asks her.

“How do you know my coffee order? You got it right the last time, too.”

“You’ve been drinking the same thing since high school, West.” Barry gives what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug. “I figured it’d be the same.”

“Hmm,” she hums and takes another long sip of her coffee. She doesn’t say anything right away. 

Instead, she seems to take a moment to appraise him, her head tilted slightly to the side. He warms under her scrutiny, feels her eyes like lasers as she traces the contours of his face. He thinks she lingers at his throat, and Barry has to stop himself from reaching up and covering his neck. He feels his face flush with heat, knows that she can definitely see that it makes him a little nervous and so he resorts to the only Barry that seems to be able to get through to her.

“See something you like?” he wonders, giving her a half-smile. 

She straightens, tilting her head to give him a look he can’t decipher. “Funny how every time I see you, you seem to become even more of a jerk than I remember you as.”

“Oh, come on, West,” he says, drumming his fingers absently on the tabletop. It doesn’t escape his notice that she glances down at his hand before her eyes dart back up to meet his. “I’m just trying to ease the tension. You still haven’t told me what we’re here for.”

“Right,” she says, though she doesn’t seem very pleased about it. “I, uh, I want to cash in on that favor you owe me.”

It shouldn’t, but the scowl in her voice makes him grin. “Oh?”

“Try not to be annoying about this,” she tells him.

“I can’t promise that until I know what I shouldn’t be annoying about.”

Her eyes roll skyward. “Of course.” She takes a sip of coffee and he waits patiently for her to speak.

“I need us to keep pretending.” The words all rush out as if she needed to get it out in a hurry. She looks at him. “ _Please_ don’t be annoying about this,” she repeats.

He acquiesces, for a moment. “Why do you want to keep doing this?”

“There's this newspaper ceremony in a month. It’s also an awards banquet.”

“Yeah, I know it,” he says.

“Right, well, I think it would be a good idea if we keep up pretenses, at least until then. Scott and CCPN made such a fucking _thing_ out of it, and if we split, I’m afraid it’ll overshadow the awards. _The Citizen_ is up for a couple awards and I figure, us dating would be old news by then and the focus would be on the newspaper and not what they perceive as my heartbreak.”

Barry had known he was going to say yes before she even explained. He isn’t going to give up the chance to be around her more, even if it is to just fight with her for days on end. It had been...rejuvenating, getting to be with her at the gala. To think that people believed someone like him could have gotten her was electrifying. She’d charmed more than a few of his parents’ constituents with her smile, her wit. Even when she was mumbling threats under her breath at him, he’d seen how interested she was in getting to know the people she was meeting, how enchanted they were by her.

It’s no different than when they were kids. She could talk herself out of _and into_ anything. Even Joe wasn’t extremely immune to her ability to bewitch anyone she spoke to. She’d sidle up to whomever needed convincing and she’d smile, the action most prominent in those big eyes, wrap a tale about how whatever they’d done was somehow for the good of mankind, and she’d get away with everything short of murder. High school had only made her more subtle and, by extension, more dangerous. Even when she’d blaze at him, lecturing him on his attitude when she’d been the one to call him nerd first, make jabs at his supposed superiority first, he’d walk away from her feeling like he’d lost something, like he needed to apologize to _her._

Despite all that, she’s always been so fundamentally _Iris,_ that their arguments had become something he craved, because it meant that for those moments, all of her attention was his.

He lets her continue, though, lets her talk more about how Joe will probably be excited and how Wally would be able to hang with them both at the same time.He absently makes a mental note to call Wally, as it’s been a while since they’ve talked. Even when he and Iris had officially become enemies, the younger West had played a neutral role in their feud, as Barry was his Science club mentor when Wally was still in middle school and Iris, obviously, was his sister.

“So will you do it?” she ends with. She wrings her hands around her cups as she waits for him to speak. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” He fingers the top of his coffee cup. “Plus, my parents have been hounding me about when you can come to dinner.”

“Oh?” she seems startled. “They meant that?”

He tips a corner of his mouth. “Of course. My parents love you, Iris.”

She gives a warm smile that he doesn’t think he’s seen for him in such a long time and he finds himself smiling back.

“I don’t actually have all that much time now, but I’ll text you later in the week to set up a time to talk about dinner with your parents. And we can go from there?”

Her tone is suspiciously businesslike all of a sudden, and Barry looks her over.

“You don’t sound super into this, West.”

“Well, I’m not.” 

His expression falters.

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’ve just run over your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat,” he supplies.

Iris makes a shaking motion with her hands and Barry decides it’s his neck she’s imagining between her half closed fists.

“You know what I mean.”

“Humor me.”

She shakes her head and reaches up to run a hand through her hair before she remembers it’s up in a bun. Instead, she slides her palm down the side of her face.

“I’m just saying, it’s you and me, ya know. We’re more likely to kill each other than date and we're supposed to pretend for a month.”

"Don't sell yourself short." He waves his hand with a calm he doesn’t actually feel and he sits up before leaning on the tabletop. “You were perfectly believable at the gala.”

Her face blanks. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

He grins sunnily.

They walk out of Jitters together, prepared to go their separate ways. She’s heading back to her office, which is in the opposite direction of his, and he lets her get a few steps away before he calls her name to stop her.

“Hey, West?”

She turns to face him, pausing near the wall of Jitters, her eyes curious. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and looks up at him. He sort of likes how he is still so much taller than her, even in those deathtraps she calls shoes. He moves closer, closer, until she has to bare her neck to him to keep eye contact. He wants to press his face into her neck, wants to press his lips against her skin, smell the sweet scent of her, bite at her soft flesh until she makes that beautiful sound she’d made when held her at her waist and tasted her lips at the gala.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks her. His voice sounds deeper to his own ears.

“Talk about it?”

“That kiss.”

He thinks that if her complexion was even the least bit lighter, he would be able to see her cheeks redden. He hopes it’s because she can’t stop thinking about it either; that it’s because every time she moves, she feels his body on hers; every time she licks his own lips, she can taste him. That it’s because she can’t close her eyes without seeing him too.

She looks away from him and back, several times in quick succession. Her mouth drops open and she closes it again, biting at her lip once more. Something familiar, invasive, stirs in his belly at the sight and he clenches his fists at his side.

“I…” she pauses as she figures out what she wants to say. He watches something akin to resolve steel over her and she squares her shoulders and turns to face him fully. “Whatever that kiss was, that can’t happen again.”

He absolutely abhors the sound of that and nothing can convince him that she didn't at least _enjoy_ that kiss. There is no way he was alone in that. So he closes her in, just a little, and she backs up until her back hits the wall.

“No?” he asks. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t want her to find a reason to run away from him, but he plants a palm on the wall beside her head and moves until he can practically feel the heat coming off of her skin.

She shakes her head, licking her lips as she does so.

“I don’t know if that’ll work, West.”

She lets out a shaky sigh. “What are you talking about?”

He smirks at her like it should be obvious. “How are we supposed to convince people we’re dating if I can’t kiss you?”

“We…” She sighs again, shakes her head, and chances eye contact. He doesn’t know what it is that makes her gasp, but she does and it starts a rumble in his chest, a heavy, drumming feeling that sucks in his breath and seizes his heart in an iron grip. 

“We can kiss,” she says, recovering before him, and that grip eases,”only if it’s necessary.”

“Only if it’s necessary?”

She nods. “Right. Only,” she repeats, “if it’s necessary.”

“Hmm,” he hums low in his throat. He stares at her for a long moment, wanting to commit more of her to his memory: wanting to remember the way the emerald green of her jumpsuit makes her skin nearly glow, and how her eyes are ringed with a sort of caramel color in the sun, and how he thinks he’s absolutely in love with her.

“I can work with necessary,” he tells her, voice lower, his fingers losing the battle at reaching down to caress her cheek. He traces the plump curve of her mouth, caring nothing about the lipstick painted on them, and he feels dizzy, lost in her.

“Bar…”

He knows she’s going to tell him to stop, to remind him that this isn’t necessary. He doesn’t think he can take those words from her right now, doesn’t even think he can handle it if she says his first name right now, so he halts her by stepping away from her; he watches her only long enough to see her lips part, to see one of her hands raised, poised as if to reach for him.

“I’ll text you,” he tells her and turns away, throwing up a hand and a “see ya, West,” as he makes his way back to his office.

He has no idea what’s next, but he can say with absolute certainty that he’s positively fucked.

***********

_It’s a warm spring night when 18 year old Barry arrives at the house of one Linda Park. He’s only been there once before, when he and the pretty writer had a project together. It’s a smaller house than his, but it’s spacious, a simple two story with red shutters and a large backyard. As far as Barry knows, her mother is out of town for the weekend so she’s taken advantage and, like every high school cliche, decided to have a party._

_There are cars littering the front of the house, a long line of them leading from where Barry had parked his car to the front door. A song by Drake nearly shakes the house, and Barry can hear the raucous sound of intoxicated teenagers in the backyard._

_He walks in through the side gate, following the trail of tiki torches from the driveway, and he is a bit taken aback to see so many people there. Barry’s not much of a party-goer and, despite his friends’ judgement_ _of those who do, the only reason he’s here is because they decided it would be good to branch out, to honestly just see what all the fuss is about. The jury is still out on whether Barry thinks it was worth it to leave the science project he was working on at home._

_When he steps through the gate, he sees a party in full swing. There is a beer pong game happening in one corner, the tell-tale red cups lined up as loud football and basketball players compete against each other. Even though it’s pretty warm out, there’s a fire pit going in the middle of the yard, and there is a group of girls around it, sitting on the bench and wooden chairs that circle it. There is a makeshift bar set up a little bit close to the back door and there, Barry sees Linda and Iris, his former and Linda’s new best friend. His breath catches in his throat._

_All Barry can see of her is from her waist up, but it’s enough that he’s sure he goes a little red. Her hair is hanging past her shoulders, the ends wavy, and she’s wearing a red lipstick that reminds him of roses. She’s wearing a lacy white top with short sleeves that hems at her midriff, leaving her belly bare, her pretty colored skin gleaming in the moonlight._

_His legs take him to her, with no instruction from him at all, and he makes no move to look for Fiona or Tristen or any of his other friends. Linda notices him first, as Troy Washington, one of Central City High's star baseball players, is in front of Iris getting a drink. And probably flirting with her. He’s been aware of that a little more often these days, though the last Barry had heard, she was on month four with some jock over at their rival high school._

_Linda gives Barry the look she always does, a little intense and faintly libidinous, as he steps up to the table._

_“Hello, Barry Allen,” Linda purrs and he blushes, giving her a half-hearted wave. He gives a curious glance at the array of liquors on the table—he still has no idea how teenagers manage to find so much alcohol—before he looks over at Troy who is ambling away. And then Iris looks at him._

_He never quite understands what’s behind her eyes when she looks him head on and tonight is no different. The stare lasts briefly, she tends to only look at him for so long before she feels the need to turn away, and then she goes to fiddle with the stacks of cups._

_“What can I get you to drink, Barry Allen?” Linda asks. Her own hair is piled up in a large bun directly on top of her head and her midriff top is navy blue, tight, and sleeveless. “Do you even drink?”_

_“Uh,” he rubs a hand behind his neck. “Not really.”_

_She nods, as if thinking about what way she might decide to kill him tonight, before giving her head one more firm shake and going for a bottle of vodka. Iris is still fiddling with the cups and it reminds him of how restless his own insides seem to be. He tries to engage her with a,_

_“Hey, West.”_

_She finally looks back at him to reply, “Hi there, Allen.”_

_Linda, apparently finished mixing her creation, hands him a cup. “Drink it slowly,” she tells him. “I don’t have time to pick your lanky ass up off of the ground later.”_

_He salutes her and takes a tiny sip. It’s surprisingly sweet and Barry turns to thank her. She’s not paying any attention, though, her sights on something behind his shoulder._

_“Hey, Barry, can you hold this down for me? I see someone I should definitely be talking to.”_

_“Uh…”_

_“Thanks,” she yelps and she’s off, rounding the table and sprinting toward the gate where a group of girls Barry doesn’t recognize have just walked in._

_When he looks back, Iris does not look pleased._

_“I can just go,” he offers, though he wants little more than to jump over the table and stand next to her._

_It’s a long moment before she lets out a heavy sigh. “No, it’s fine. It’s Linda’s party. What she wants, she gets.” He thinks he notices a glimmer of a smile curve her mouth._

_He circles the table, dropping his drink down in the corner._

_“So,” he says, waving his hand above the table. “I have no idea what any of this is.”_

_“No one is surprised, Allen.”_

_He frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”_

_“Just that no one is surprised you’ve never been to a party before.”_

_“That’s not what I said,” he explains. “How did you get that out of what I said?”_

_She shrugs. “I’m only mentioning the obvious.”_

_“How is that obvious?”_

_“Come on, Allen, you’ve got on a button-down.”_

_“And you’re half-naked.”_

_She rounds on him and places her hands on her hip. “What the hell are you trying to say?”_

_Barry shakes his head, waving his arms. He didn’t mean it in the way that sounded. “That’s not what I…” he tries but her glare cuts him._

_“What are you even doing here, Allen? I never see you at these things.”_

_“I was invited!” He throws his hands up. “You should’ve just told me to fucking go, West.”_

_He picks up his drink, planning to chug it as soon as he got away from her, and moves to round the corner. He doesn’t know why he was expecting that this might be a little different, that maybe tonight they didn’t necessarily have to be_ them. _This year has been supremely stressful, applying for colleges and then waiting, fucking_ waiting _for decisions to be announced. It’s all enough for Barry to go crazy. And alternately fighting with and having wet dreams about Iris West doesn’t actually help._

_“Wait, Barry.” She reaches out to grab his hand, stopping him and stepping forward at the same time. She realizes that she’s actually holding his hand at the same time that he does and she drops it like she’s been burned. He tries not to let that affect him, not like the newly rare sound of his name on her lips._

_“I didn’t…” She squares her shoulders. “I apologize.”_

_He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. If Iris is apologizing, there must be something wrong._

_“Jason and I broke up,” she tells him, “and I’m a little bit upset about it.”_

_“A little bit?”_

_“Yes, a little bit,” she says, her tone telling him to end it there. “And I should not take it out on you.”_

_She exhales deeply, like she’s just given a speech, and it takes all of Barry not to give her a smile. It’s so very Iris._

_“I’m sorry, Iris,” Barry says instead. “I’m sure that this Jason was just a jerk…”_

_“A bigger jerk than you?” she questions, though this taunt is not so mean._

_“I’m sure that this Jason was just a jerk,” he continues, and it’s worth it to see the laugh she tries to cover up. “But he doesn’t deserve you anyway. You’re cool, and smart, and some people might even call you beautiful.”_

_“Some people?”_

_He lets out a shaky laugh. “Fishing for compliments, West?_

_She beams. “Absolutely.” She steps back to pick up a cup and takes a sip. “You gotta be careful, Allen. I might start to think you care.”_

_“Of course not,” he says, but he looks over at the party instead of at her. It’s a nice night, balmy but the wind’s blowing so it’s the perfect type of night for a party like this. He sees Sally Jennings upside down on the keg, Bobby Fisher and Aaron Hayes holding her jean clad legs. Linda’s nowhere to be seen, though Barry can’t say that he’s surprised he can’t spot her._

_He turns back to her. “Let’s play nice for a bit, yeah? Pick up the fight tomorrow?”_

_Her head tilts as she considers him, and Barry stiffens under her scrutiny. Finally, when he thinks he should probably just slink away, chalk this up to another failed attempt at, he doesn’t even know what, Iris nods._

_“Sure, Allen. Let's play nice.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per usual, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm sorry it took so long. Finding Barry's voice was a little difficult but I hope I did him some justice.
> 
> I want you all to know that I read every single comment and I appreciate them so much. They truly are my bread and butter so thank you so much. With that being said, keep 'em coming :)
> 
> I hope to be back sooner rather than later. Our spring break starts on Friday so I have a week to decide between writing and Netflix. Hopefully writing wins.
> 
> Love, Elle <3  
> (P.S. All typos are my own fault and I hope that it doesn't detract from the story.)


	5. V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, poor Iris.

V.

_“And I don't want to fall in love; no, I don’t want to fall in love...with you.”_

Iris has three favorite places: Jitters, _The Citizen_ offices, and her apartment. She lives in a three-story converted warehouse on the edge of town. The bottom floor has become an art gallery (after a series of other failed businesses) and the top two floors were made into apartments about five years ago.

The apartments are beautiful, loft style with wall length windows and exposed brick. She’d managed to snatch hers up with a rent controlled deal when they’d first gone on the market five years ago, before the still-rising popularity of lofts had factored into the cost. She’d been fresh out of grad school, working at CCPN and this area hadn’t necessarily been the safest. For such a gorgeous place, at such a low price, Iris had ignored her father’s nagging about it and it’s been the one thing she’d done in spite of her father’s advice that she’s never regretted. Values have gone up and the neighborhood has changed but she’s as in love with her apartment as she’s always been.

She loves the high ceilings, how the industrial lighting clashes beautifully with her more homey furnishings. She loves the two floors: the bottom floor acting as her living space, the front door opening to her living room, which gives way to a kitchen, the hall off the side leading to her bedroom; and the top floor leading to space big enough for a small home office and a workout area. She loves the decor, shades of yellow, gray, and ivory, with heavy rugs and floral prints to tie it all together. It makes her feel calm when she’s there.

Which is what she needs right now, because since she’d gone to see Barry two days ago, she’s been on edge and stressed, a tightly coiled mess of emotions. Her decision to prolong their agreement had not been one she’d made lightly. After their night out, she’d gotten a number of emails and phone calls about her relationship with Barry. Scott’s news article had been the first domino in a knock down that’d made her want to turn her cell phone off and hide ‘til the rest of this was over. The Allens, with all their money and do-gooding, are something like celebrities in Central City, sort of like the Queens in Star City, though Barry is a lot more boring than Oliver Queen and even his younger sister Thea. Despite all that, the news loves him and takes any opportunity to feature him in ways that do not surround his parents’ charity or his continuing work with the science club at their old high school.

Avoiding him in the news had become a habit for her and to see her face plastered next to his had, quite frankly, freaked her the fuck out. She had immediately wanted to respond to Barry’s apology text (the cause of said apology she’s been trying to forget about since it happened) and tell him to hold a press conference or something as equally ridiculous to tell them that they were only merely pretending, that they were not even actual friends. But even if her own newspaper had joined the fray, she knew that she couldn't spin every result of such an admission. She’d already peeped some of the things being said about her, the love mixed in with the vitriol: kind words about how pretty she’d looked in her dress below disgust that she was the one Barry had supposedly chosen; harsh words about her her using him to boost her newspaper next to words praising her for the same thing. She hadn’t read much after.

It had made her think, though. Staying with him, at least through the award show in a month, would allow the story of them to die down. There’s always the possibility that it can backfire, but the alternative, starting a whole new wave of news, appears to be the worse option. If she needs to pretend to be enamored with Barry in order to preserve her reputation, there is no question. She’ll just have to make sure there is no need for him to kiss her; that she’s not wholly sure she can come back from.

  
  


After work on Friday evening, she walks out of her bedroom and makes her way to the stairs, dressed in a pair of plain black biker shorts and a sports bra. She searches through her phone for her workout playlist and by the time she’s pressed play on one of her favorite rap songs, she’s standing in front of the hanging boxing bag her dad installed when she’d first moved in. The harsh, thumping beat motivates her through her stretches and then the nonsensical lyrics of DaBaby— _pack in the mail, it's gone (uh); she like how I smell, cologne (yeah_ )—takes her through strapping her hands in her boxing gloves and starting in on the bag.

She minds her foot movements, counts the jabs she does on both arms for a few minutes before she gets lost in it, before she lets the thump of the music take her away. She’s been boxing since she was 15 years old, after she’d done a piece on one of the football players whose dad had been a professional boxer. Their interview had been done at his dad’s gym—the boy had worked there after practice and on the weekends—and Iris had been captivated watching the men (and one lone woman) sparring. She doesn’t know why it had appealed to her so much. Maybe it was the way they had looked so sure of themselves, a feat that a teenage Iris had only faked. Maybe it was watching the way the one woman moved, she doesn’t know. But she’d immediately gone home to ask her dad for lessons. It’d taken weeks of begging, taking the time out to look up information on her own, looking up articles on the benefits, but she’d managed to convince him. She’s never been so grateful.

She’s about thirty minutes into her workout when the music cuts off. She knows who it is before she even turns towards where her phone is lying next to the bluetooth speaker. She holds the bag when it swings to her, and then wipes at her forehead with her forearm.

When she turns, her brother Wally is standing there, a saccharine smile on his handsome face. At 24, Wally has come into himself. He’s taller than Iris by a few inches, his short curly hair tapered on the sides, his dark eyes expressive. The baby blue button down he’s wearing shows the breadth of his shoulders, the khaki pants his slim hips. He’s grown up so much from the little boy that used to follow her and Barry around that it often catches her off-guard.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, finally, moving towards the bottle of water of water sitting on her desk. “That key I gave you is for emergencies, you know that, right?”

He smiles genially. “This is an emergency.”

Iris lifts an eyebrow as she drains the water bottle. His smile tells her otherwise.

“You haven’t responded to me in days. I was worried,” he says.

“You don’t sound so much worried as you do up to something.” 

“Who, me?”

Iris rolls her eyes but then moves into his orbit. Like they do every time they see one another, he wraps his arm around her waist and gives her a quick squeeze, grinning when she presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ve missed you, big sis.”

She shakes her head at him, but she can’t quite hide the way her mouth curves in a smile. “What do you want, Wally?”

“Why do you insist I want something?”

She gives him the look that tends to get her answers from anyone she wants to. It’s one he’s familiar with, the one that notes her status as not only his big sister but something like a mother, a role 6 year old Iris had had to step into. 

“Alright, fine,” he says. “Go get dressed. We’re going out.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, we are. When was the last time you went out?”

She says quickly, “when I went to the gala with Barry,” but quickly realizes her mistake when he grin becomes conspiratory.

“Yes. You and Barry Allen. Your boyfriend.” He tilts his head to assess her. “Up until that article, I was convinced you wanted to kill each other.”

If it weren’t for Barry, Iris thinks, she wouldn’t be in this mess, so that thought is still fairly accurate.

“It just kind of happened,” she answers, her eyes pleading with him not to ask anything else, not to dig any deeper. She’s never lied to Wally before, and it doesn’t feel good that she’s doing it now.

“Right,” Wally says. “So we should celebrate the union between two of my favorite people.”

There is a stubborn tilt to the smile he gives her. It is not new. It’s been there since he was a baby, staving off his own cries as if he could tell it would only make things worse. It’d been there when he was a kid, following after Barry and Iris even after they’d told him no. it’d been there when he’d stayed in Central City for school instead of going to M.I.T, claiming that it wasn’t just the money that had kept him here, but his unwillingness to be away from her and their dad.

All of this is why she just agrees.

************

They decide on Elle’s, one of Central City’s newest bars. The vibe is an eclectic mix of modern amenities—TVs on the walls, leather couches, food that _speaks—_ with a touch of relaxation, cheap, delicious drinks and live music. She’s never been, and it’s been so long since she’s been out drinking with her brother (or even her friends) that she finds herself feeling a bit more excited as she lotions herself up after her shower, as she combs out her straightened hair. 

Wally has control of her playlist and when she hears the smooth opening of Ari Lennox, _shea butter, baby,_ her excitement bubbles up. She pours herself into a teal blue sleeveless skater dress, the neckline dipping to her waist, the glimmery material flouncing against her thighs. She decides on light makeup, a subtle gold shimmer over her lids, kohl liner to bring out her eyes, a maroon lip. When she slips her feet into a pair of strappy gold sandals, she feels good. She loves the way that the dress looks on her and she makes up her mind to have a good night, to put away that swirling, messy feeling that comes up every time she thinks of Barry Allen.

She walks out of her room to where she finds Wally standing in her kitchen, elbows leaning on the counter. He’s tapping away at his phone and Iris sidles up behind him, trying to look over his shoulder.

“New boyfriend?” she questions.

Wally looks over his shoulder at her as he pointedly pulls his phone from her view. “I’m not the one in the habit of hiding boyfriends.”

“Will you let that go?”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “If you buy me my first drink.”

With an annoyed sigh, Iris ignores him, heading for the door. And Wally follows behind, grin on his face.

The walk from Iris’s apartment to Elle’s is only 10 minutes. She and Wally don’t talk much, instead content to watch the rest of the people who, like them, have decided on a night out on the town. It feels foreign to Iris, glamming up to party with her brother. They’ve done it on a few occasions (Wally’s 21st birthday, when she officially started the _Citizen)_ but their schedules are so often in conflict that the most they usually have time for is a quick brunch together. His work on his Master’s degree in addition to research he’s doing keeps him as busy as Iris running around trying to track down stories.

They take a turn onto Main Street and the scene changes. The streets are alight: bar signs beckoning with promises of drink specials, live music playing on the patio of one of the restaurants, people dressed in button downs and too short skirts, heels as high as Iris’s. In college this was her scene, loud and flashy. She and Linda had dominated this street in college, taking breaks from long nights at the college newspaper to have fun. It’d slowed to a stop when they’d both gotten work, Iris at _CCPN_ and Linda at another newspaper covering Sports. Life had delegated them to impromptu wine nights at home, their laptops nearby, just in case.

It’s been so long since she’s been out that it takes her aback, the crowd and the noise and the group of college guys who are already clearly fucked up. But Wally senses her reserve and he reaches down to give her hand a quick squeeze.

“It’ll be fun,” he reminds her. “Elle’s is a lot more chill. I’ve invited some friends, if that’s okay, but they aren’t the rowdy type.”

“Right. It’ll be great,” she says, throwing a smile at him.

“Keep that mentality,” he adds and Iris laughs. She squeezes back at his hand and they continue down the street.

* * *

“Hey guys.”

Iris is texting Linda about her whereabouts when she hears his voice. They’ve found a corner table in the elegantly decorated bar. The black top tables are surrounded on one side by cream leather booths, and on the other by gold chairs. In front of them are drinks in various degrees of consumption, Iris’s own glass still half full. Music plays from the speakers, though not overly loud like many bars. She’s still been able to half listen to the things that Wally and his friends have been saying. He’s invited two others: Jessie, a really pretty brunette in a slinky silver dress, who’s laughing at something Brandon, tall and dark-skinned and handsome, is saying. They’re both in the same graduate program that Wally is in, smart in the almost arrogant way that Barry is, but still warm and friendly.

The vacant thought of how Barry’s warmth depends on who he’s talking to (and whether or not he’s trying, for whatever reason she still hasn’t figured out, to fluster her) cuts out when she hears him. His voice sounds like a melody, even over the sound of the music. It does something funny to her, makes her tense at the same time that it settles her, a glinting flutter in her belly before it wraps itself around her. 

She blinks up at him and even though he’s speaking to the whole group, he’s only looking at her. She can't read the expression on his face, not the faint tilt of his lips or the crinkle in his eyebrows or how intently his eyes seem to be roaming over her face.

She chances a glance at all of him and Barry in all black is a sight to behold. He’s so lean, but there is muscle there too, the short sleeved shirt showing off his biceps, the black pants hinting at a strength in his thighs. The black makes him look paler, but it throws in stark contrast the moles littering his face, his throat, makes his pretty eyes seem almost ethereal in the darkness of the club.

“Look who it is,” she hears Wally say beside her, and it breaks her out of whatever trance Barry has thrown her in. “Your boyfriend.”

She looks at her little brother. “You invited him?”

Her tone is hard, and she curses herself when Wally frowns. For all Wally understands, Barry _is_ her boyfriend, and it would make no sense why she isn’t happy to see him there, or why _she_ hadn’t even invited him with them tonight.

“I was trying to surprise you,” Barry offers. It’s a way to make this less awkward and Iris clutches at it like a lifeline.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. Hi, Bear.”

The endearment rolls off her tongue, her grasp at making them seem like a true couple since she was the one who’d asked for it anyway, but it shocks the both of them. She’s not called him much of anything beside Allen in the last decade and the sound of his childhood nickname on her own tongue makes something hot rush through her. She physically shudders and reaches down to grab her glass, draining the rest of it.

“Are y’all alright?” Wally asks, still confused.

Iris nods because anything she says would probably give her away. “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

She slides out of the booth and stands on her tall heels. The rush of standing (or more probably just the way of him standing there, throwing off her equilibrium) makes her stumble into him. He immediately wraps an arm around her waist, stabling her with the press of his hand to her bare back. His hand is warm on her skin, long fingers spread out, dotting along her spine.

She inhales deeply, at the hard feel of his chest, at his clean smell, at the way his fingers flex on her.

“Are you okay?” he says softly, from right above her ear.

“Of course, Allen.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been drinking.” He takes a hold of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and brings her eyes to his. “Your eyes don’t look glassy,” he says, though it’s more to himself.

She rolls her eyes at him and swipes at his hand on her face.

“That’s because I’ve only had one drink, you idiot. Certainly not drunk enough for all of this.”

“All of what?” He flexes his hand on her once more before stepping back. “You fell into me.”

“Because you’re standing in the way,” she huffs.

“Excuse me for making sure you didn’t fall flat on your face.”

She scowls. “You’re the reason I almost fell in the first place.”

Barry throws his hands up, face speaking faintly of annoyance. “What does that even _mean_?”

“There’s the Iris and Barry I know and love,” Wally interrupts from his seat.

“Shut up.” Iris and Barry say in unison.

She takes a deep breath and plasters a smile on her face. If Barry is alarmed by the sudden change, he doesn’t show it, probably used to the tricks she typically employs to tell him she’s decided to ignore him.

“I’m going to go get that drink now,” she says, and starts to walk past him. She doesn’t get very far because he grabs her wrist to stop her. His long fingers completely circle around her wrist and she pauses, half turned away from him. This is the first time he’s seeing the whole of her outfit, the way the material clings to her breasts, her hips, how it sparkles in the dim light of the club. She sees it, only for a moment, something like _lust_ , raw and uninhibited, in the flash of his eyes. But it’s gone before Iris can take full stock of it, and she doesn’t know what to make of the sinking feeling that follows.

“We should really talk, West,” he says, still holding on to her.

“Okay,” she concedes, pulling away from him. “But you’re buying my drink.”

“Of course I am,” he says, but he follows after her anyway.

Iris is happy to find an empty spot to stand at the far corner of the bar. It’s quieter there, away from the raucous laughter of the patrons, from the speakers that are currently playing some indie rock band Iris has never heard of. The space is tight, so while Iris places her elbows on the counter, Barry has to stand sideways, facing her.

There are only two bartenders here tonight, which makes no sense on a Friday night, especially with the sheer size of the crowd, and they’re all the way on the other side of the bar. She settles in to wait, content to ignore Barry until one of the bartenders comes to them, but he speaks before she can attempt to forget he’s there.

“You looked surprised to see me,” he mutters. “Did Wally not tell you I was coming?”

“Nope.” She gives up on that ignoring thing and turns. “I don’t think he believes us.”

Barry is baffled. “Wait? He doesn’t know we’re not actually together.”

“No. I mean, I feel like there’s already enough people who know about this sham: Linda and my employees, Cisco. Telling more people seems counterproductive, if the masses are supposed to believe we’re together.”

He nods once. “Maybe we should come up with some rules, about how this is supposed to work.”

“Rules.” She hadn’t thought of that. “Like what?”

“No telling anyone, for one.”

“I just said that.”

“Yes, but I was reiterating. For the purpose of laying out the rules.”

Iris narrows her eyes at him.

“Oh, come on, West. I was just stamping it down!”

She scans his face, the slight pout to his mouth, the mirth dancing in his eyes.

“You gonna be annoying during this whole thing?”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

Iris resists the urge to roll her eyes, again. “You are a literal child.”

“West,” he says, elongating the “e”. “You wound me.”

“Sure, I do.” She stands up straighter, as if steeling herself for battle. “Alright. I can do this. We can do this, right?

It’s meant to be rhetorical, but Barry still answers.

“Exactly.” He reaches down and grabs her hand, lightly rubbing his thumb along hers. “We’ve had to do it before. Play nice, I mean. It’s just a longer game.”

“You’re right.”

A corner of his mouth ticks up. “Tell me that again.”

“Don’t push it, Allen.”

He laughs but he doesn’t let go of her hand.

“Alright. So rules,” Iris reminds them. “What else, do you think?”

In response, Barry gives her a slow grin, the one that's so different from the sweet, anxious smiles he would give her all those years ago. This is the one that speaks of Barry Allen, head CSI, newspaper darling, son of Central City’s favorite couple. This one speaks of confidence, of sex appeal, of that _thing_ that flutters around her when he’s around. It speaks to something she can’t name.

“Well, we’ve already got another one too. I can kiss you any time it’s necessary.”

She grows warmer, the image of their kiss attacking her unbidden. When she lets herself think about it, she can still feel his hands on her hips, can still taste his mouth, can still feel the rush of arousal that had flooded her sex.

“That isn’t quite how I worded that,” she says, but he isn’t paying her words any attention.

He closes the bit of space between them, the suddenly hard peaks of her nipples brushing against his firm chest. He presses a hand to her back again, his fingers dancing down the middle of her back until it finds its position just above the curve of her ass. He licks his lips, tongue swiping across his pink mouth and Iris suddenly feels paralyzed. She can’t move or think or, _hell_ , see anything, not anything other than Barry standing tall and imposing and solidly in front of her.

“Barry, what are you…?”

“Wally is walking up,” is the only warning he gives her before he leans down and captures her mouth.

This kiss is different from the last one. It is still intense, his claim on her mouth deliberate. But this one is sweeter, somehow, more experimental. His lips are slow on hers, trying to get a better feel on the shape of her mouth, the slide of her tongue. Her eyes flutter closed and she lets herself place a hand on his chest. She likes the way he smells, the light scent of rosewood, the faint hints of cedar mixed with the warmth of his skin; she likes the way he tastes, cool and sweet. Just as she begins to fall into him, the kiss ends. She only just stops herself from chasing him, her upper body leaning forward.

“Really? In public? That’s so uncouth. I swear...”

She hears Wally from somewhere beside her but it sounds faint, as if he’s speaking through a vacuum. 

“..way more than I needed to see between my mentor and my sister,” he finishes.

Barry watches her, tries to gauge her reaction; she stares back at him as he reaches down to caress her cheek. It’s a move he’s done before, his knuckle grazing her face, sliding along the curve of her lips. She feels almost drugged, which might be why she falls against him when he leans into her again.

“That might take some of his doubts away,” he tells her, lips moving against her ear.

“Right,” she breathes. She hates that she sounds breathy _._ Barry Allen is not supposed to make her sound _breathy._

“Let’s talk more about rules tomorrow. I’ll pick you up for breakfast.”

She doesn’t get to answer, to try to explain why breakfast would definitely _not_ be a good idea, because several things happen at that moment. Wally squeezes his way against the bar, catching the eye of a bartender almost immediately. Linda walks up to the group, dressed in a cap-sleeved red jumpsuit, flanked by Kamilla, in a simple but form-fitting black dress and Allegra, who’s dressed up too, in tight jeans and a slinky gold top. And then Barry steps back from her, but only enough to give their friends space. When she finally turns around to face their friends, he pulls at her. She steps, careful on her heels, until she’s falling back into him.

She wants to stay right there pressed into him; she wants to move away from him and stand clear across the room. She wants to figure out what it means that her enemy slash fake boyfriend just kissed her again (even after she told herself she wouldn’t let him) and she still feels it, down to the quiver of her thighs **.** She decides on the former, for reasons she won’t admit to herself, although the look Linda gives her is judgmental and knowing.

Wally manages to procure a round of shots for the lot of them, winking his way into paying for only half of them. Barry stays half wrapped around her as he grabs one of the shots that has been slid down to their end of the bar. 

“Let’s make a toast,” Linda suggests. 

They all fix themselves into some semblance of a circle, Wally, Jessie, and Brandon on one side, Linda, Allegra, and Kamilla on the other, Barry and Iris at the head. There is something there, she notes, some ridiculous metaphor for the fact that they are here like this, together. 

“To old friendships,” Linda speaks, voice clear over the sounds around them. “And to new relationships.”

She holds her glass up and they all follow her lead, clinking their glasses together. Before Linda downs her own drink, she catches Iris’s eyes, flitting her gaze between her and Barry. Iris closes her eyes against the question and tips her glass back. She feels Barry move behind her and then his long fingers are in her view, placing his own glass next to hers.

She’d imagined them, like this, when they were kids. Before growth had pulled them apart, she’d wondered how they might be when they became adults. She cannot say that she’d thought about them as a romantic entity, but she isn’t sure that, in some of the darker corners of her mind, she hadn’t thought of them romantically. Still, whatever thoughts or ideas she’d had of them had definitely been domestic in nature. She’d seen them out shopping together, him holding her bags while she tried on outfit after outfit. She had seen them cooking in an apartment; the who of it hadn’t mattered, only the fact that they had been together, in a friendship unchanged by time. The thought of it confuses her, maybe even more so than the kiss she can still feel on her lips, so she pushes it all the way back, where she stores the memories of her mother (even some memories of him), where she keeps otherwise pesky emotions rooted tight.

They’re playing a game, she reminds herself. They’ll finish this game and things will go back to how they were. She ignores the way her heart sinks at that thought.

The night progresses in a confounding swirl of laughs and indiscreet touches and booze. They take another shot, and then Kamilla gets a text from Cisco, explaining about a live band setting up in the back of Elle’s, where apparently he’s been for a little while. There is a bar on the patio and Kamilla, Wally, and Wally’s friends head out back.

Barry lets her go to pay for their drinks and when he does, Linda pounces. She grabs her hand and leads them through the crowd, following the path their friends just took. The night hits them in a burst of light, this music from inside Elle’s now a faint murmur. The patio is huge, decorated in the same tasteful style as inside, in black and cream and gold. A black stage sits to the left of the door and the furniture faces it. There are couches along the high, wrought iron gates that enclose the patio. Tables and chairs litter the space in front of them. Their group has settled at one of the six person tables near the back corner, in front of one of the few empty couches.

They make it just outside the door before Linda pulls her to the side, Allegra following curiously.

“Y’all looked really cozy,” Linda says, hands on her hips.

“You did,” Allegra agrees. “I know you said this was all fake but it looks pretty real.”

“That’s the point, right?” Iris responds.

“So that kiss I saw was just for show? For nothing.”

Iris glances heavenward. ”It’s nothing,” she claims. “I don’t think Wally believes us and we don’t want anyone else to know. We’re just trying to make it believable.”

“It is,” Allegra says again. She’s done in her hair in waves for the night, and she tucks a strand behind her ear.

“Please don’t make this more than what it is,” Iris pleads.

Linda hums disapprovingly. “Iris…”

Her glare makes Linda pause. The other woman huffs loudly.

“Fine. But in addition to being maid-of-honor, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”

Linda walks off toward their group. Allegra starts to walk away too, but not before she tells her, “I know you and CSI Allen are doing this because of the story, but Linda’s right. The way he looks at you doesn’t really say this is pretend.”

Having said her piece, Allegra looks pointedly behind her and then exits too.

Iris runs a hand through her hair in agitation, gazing unseeing at the people in front of her. There isn’t a big crowd—there are still a few tables and another couch open—but it’s full of people, couples on date night and groups like them who are obviously out to have a good time. The band is set up on the side, a wooden stage holding the drummer, keyboardist, and the lead singer strumming on a guitar. They’re still warming up so conversation is high, laughter all around them. 

“Is everything alright?” Barry’s voice sounds behind her as he places a hand at her waist.

“Shit.” She jumps at the contact and Barry steps back, hand up.

“It’s just me.”

“You scared me.” She turns to face him fully.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking his eyes off of her. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Fine.”

He lifts her chin with his forefinger. “Sure?”

“I said yes, Allen,” she mumbles, but her voice isn’t unkind.

He seems to accept her assertion, because he doesn’t say anything about how she clearly looks a bit shaken; he merely grabs her hand and leads her over to their friends.

Linda, Allegra, Jessie, Brandon, and Wally have taken the table. They’re talking animatedly, Iris only catching the words, “There is no competition between the Flash and Iron-Man,” before turning her attention to where Barry is leading her. They settle on the couch next to Cisco and Kamilla, after Cisco jumps up to give Barry a hug.

“Hey there, Boss Lady,” he greets her too, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Hi Cisco. I see you’re still trying to corrupt my employee.”

“I would never!” he exclaims, but he winks at her as he sits.

Cisco and Kamilla fall into a conversation, and Iris feels content to watch them all interact, taking a much needed moment to breathe. But then Barry drapes an arm over her shoulder and her breathing stutters. He doesn’t notice. He seems relaxed, oblivious to the up and down of her emotions, to the whirlwind of thoughts that begin and end with Linda’s voice in her head, _“I told you so, I told you so, I told you so.”_

Sometimes, Linda really gets on her fucking nerves.

The band starts playing about ten minutes later. They are alternative, with obvious R&B influences, there in the subtle chords of the guitar, in the lilting keys of the piano. The lead singer is a woman with honey brown skin and a dark purple afro, her curls wild and big. The drummer is tanned and bald, with an enormous beard covering his jaw. The pianist looks quite like the lead, though her hair is in long twists, beads and shells placed throughout.

They go through their first couple songs and the crowd is chill, listening, trying to gauge their style. Barry’s arm is still around her shoulders and halfway through the first song, he starts to touch her, drawing along her bare shoulder. He’s writing words, she’s almost sure of it, but she can’t make out what they say. It doesn’t matter, though. She feels languid, in his arms, lulled by the woman’s voice—melodic and strong, a writhing swirl of love, based on the song—and his fingers on her become calming. They move lower, his fingers, tracing the fabric of her dress, tickling her skin above her breasts. His caresses are so light she cannot tell whether they are deliberate or not. In any case, she feels his touch _everywhere:_ her nipples pebbling, almost begging for him to move his hand lower; her clit pulsing, growing warm and wet. She should feel ashamed, aghast.He’s not even touching her really (and her mind keeps reminding her: _this isn't real; you don’t like him; he doesn’t want you)_ but she can’t deny how she’s feeling right now. She’s aching for him.

(she’s only aching right now, just for a moment, because of the music and the booze and the fairy lights woven through the gate that makes this much more romantic that it needs to be.)

At some point, Linda brings them drinks and when it’s drained, she finds herself falling more into him, even touching him too. At first it’s just her palm on his jean clad thigh, the hardness shocking her. Then she begins to tap her fingers to the music. It’s nothing alarming, not even a real touch, but she finds that she likes her hand on him.

By the fourth song, a few people have gotten up to dance. The song playing is mid-tempo, a funky, catchy beat, and she spots Wally twirling Linda out on the dance floor. Kamilla and Cisco get up a few beats later and then Barry leans down to whisper in her ear, “Dance with me?”

She turns to find his face close to hers, just a breath away. She could get lost in him, like this.

“Can you even dance, Allen?”

He swipes a tongue across his bottom lip. “I can do a lot of things.”

Her eyes widens a little and he smiles, dropping a kiss on her forehead before hopping up and holding out a hand to her. She doesn’t hesitate in taking it.

She finds out that he can dance. He’s got rhythm and he moves easily to the beat, her hands steadily clasped in his as he twirls her. He dances her into the next song, this one faster, a bit of reggae influence in the beat. He stumbles a little, probably not used to the energetic song, but he’s good about following her when she turns her back to him and rocks against his front. He follows the sway of her hips, one hand there, the other spread over her belly. She gets into the music, gets into moving with him, her eyes closed as she moves. She places her own hand over where it is on her belly, reaches up to his neck, his hair, and plays in the tresses as she dips and shakes, her dress riding her thighs, Barry breathing on her neck.

When a slow song comes on (two or three or maybe four songs later, she’s not sure; she only knows she’s hot from dancing and hot from the feel of his hands and soaking wet besides) he turns her around and pulls her flush against him. Her arms circle his neck and then his holding her bare back again, just above the curve of her ass. She rests her head on his shoulder, clutching at his hands. They’re both quiet while they catch their breath, letting the ballad wash over them.

“I didn’t tell you,” he says eventually. “About how you look in this dress.”

She lifts her head to eye him, eyebrows raised. “What about it?”

“You look…” he trails off, thinking, eyes clouding momentarily.

She suddenly needs to know what he thinks. “I look?” she prods.

“You look good.”

This answer is boring, or it would be, but there’s the way he licks his lips as he looks down at her, and the way he squeezes her to him, and how he makes it _sound,_ his tongue caressing the word.

“Thank you,” she breathes out, and she lays back on his shoulder before she does something stupid, like ask him to take her home so she can find out if he thinks she looks as good out of the dress.

She only stays a while longer. The long day has finally caught up with her and she’s suddenly exhausted, ready for bed and to put the strangeness of this night behind her. No one else is ready to leave, so even though her apartment is a short distance away, she sets out to call an uber after saying her goodbyes.

“I’ll walk you,” Barry offers, and he shakes his head when she begins to decline. “C’mon. You can put up with me for ten more minutes.”

His tone is teasing, but he suddenly looks a little unsure, with his hands in his pockets and his hair a little messy from when she’d run her fingers through it while they danced. He looks good like this, pink lips wet from his tongue, expression earnest, eyes still with the hint of _something_ that’s been there all night.

It’s why she tells him, “okay.”

Their walk is mostly silent, each lost in their own thoughts. They do decide on Jitters for breakfast, their new breakfast menu is great, though she does tell him he doesn’t have to pick her up. He doesn’t protest and soon they’re at her door. He follows her up the short steps and waits until she pulls her keys from her clutch.

Before he lets her turn to unlock her door, he wraps an arm around her waist and plants a firm kiss to her mouth. 

“There’s no one around,” she whispers, when he pulls back.

“I know.” His voice is throaty, as if he’s just been gutted. “It felt right.”

And then he’s gone, walking back in the direction they came from. The last thing she hears before she walks into her building is, “See ya tomorrow, West.”

************

Barry is already there when she walks into Jitters. The Saturday morning crowd doesn’t quite help the slight pounding in her head, but the thought that caffeine is already waiting for her perks her up. Her shoulder bag knocks against her hip as she walks around people to get to where he’s sitting at the same table they’d been at the last time they were there. He’s got two large cups in front of him, and his focus is on something outside.

She steels herself before she gets to the table. Their dalliance last night has left her feeling out of control, unable to keep hold of the narrative that’s so firmly planted in her mind about Barry Allen. He’s always been a bit of an enigma: sweet, though not without that underlying confidence carried by white men with rich parents; smart, but only socially awkward enough that it’s charming and not off-putting; flighty, but with an underlying intensity she’d, quite frankly, not known he possessed. Oh, he gets passionate about his job, about science-y things she doesn’t understand, but very little otherwise seems to hold his attention.

The sexual intensity, though. That had thrown her for a loop. She gets that it was the pretense, that the alcohol they’d consumed had probably played a big part in the casual touches, in how close he’d kept her to him. She knows that the kissing isn’t real, that it means nothing. But a liittle part of her is surprised, by how attentive he’d been, by how sweet, and fervent, and okay, _fucking good_ those kisses had been. If this is Barry in a relationship, she has no clue how he’s still single.

He hears her pull the chair out and he immediately turns to her. He gives her a once-over; she’s noticed that he does it every time he sees her and she figures she should be used to the scrutiny. But she’s not, because she can never guess what he’s thinking, can never figure out what his expressions mean. Like now, as he gazes at her light-denim skinny jeans, her sleeveless silk blouse, her carefully brushed bun, she’s unsure of anything, not even when he graces her with a smile.

“You’re wearing glasses,” she blurts. He sits back in his seat and pushes the glasses up his nose. His eyes are overbright through the lenses. It seems at odds with the faint dusting of hair at his jaw. He always looks so put together that it’s a bit startling to see him this way. It is not an unappealing look.

“Yeah, I uh, lost my contacts.” His grin is sheepish as he fingers his chin. “I also woke up too late to shave so this is where I’m at.”

“Hmmm.” Iris reaches for her coffee. “You’re not completely hideous, like this.”

“High praise,” he says, “coming from you.”

Her response is to grab her coffee, lift the lid, and chug as much as she can swallow without spilling it on her white blouse.

When she’s done, she finds him grinning at her. “Good?”

“Amazing.” She doesn’t even try for anything snarky. “I don’t even know how I made it here in one piece.”

“Pretty sure I drove on autopilot,” he adds.

“You work today, Mr. Head CSI?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “The department is requiring me to take two weeks off because I’ve worked too much overtime. I’ve got one more week and I want to finish up a few cases.”

“Only you would work so much that you’d be forced to take a vacation.”

He sips from his own coffee. “I have a feeling you’re quite the same way.”

For the most part, she is, but she isn’t going to tell him that.

“I’ll have you know, I’m going on vacation as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We do a family vacation every year. Well, family including Linda.”

“Of course,” Barry concedes, knowing that, other than a very nice foster mother she still has regular contact with, Linda has no other family. Her parents were killed by a drunk driver when she was 14, right before she started at Central City High. They’d bonded over missing parents (that and boys and writing because, of course) and when the West’s had started vacationing the summer after freshman year, they’d happily invited Linda along. She’s been a part of the family ever since.

“Well, it’s in a week, same as your break, I guess.” She tilts her head. “Although all of us don’t get two weeks.”

“Perks of being Head CSI.”

Iris smirks. “Nerd.”

“I can’t trade barbs with you right now, West,” he whines. “I need food.”

That perks her up. “Oh, food. I definitely want a breakfast sandwich. And a hash brown.” She turns and starts digging in her bag. “I can pay this time. What do you want?” 

“Nah,” he taps the table as he stands. “I got it.”

He’s gone before she can say anything and she pulls her hand out of her bag. She reaches into her back pocket to grab her phone and, while she waits, she checks a few emails. There’s one from Detective Barnes with some updated information on the Jenkins case. There’s another from dad that says “If you won’t call, I’ll have to get you through email,” with his phone number written at the bottom, as if she’s forgotten. She makes a mental note to call him on the way to work. She answers a few more work emails, confirmed some times for Kamilla to go on a few shoots.

Barry returns a surprisingly short while later, placing her sandwich and hash brown in front of her. He’s ordered the same thing. They eat for a few moments in silence and then, after Barry has almost literally inhaled his breakfast, he asks,

“So what about these rules?”

She finishes swallowing a bite before she speaks. “Well, we’ve got two. No telling anyone else this isn’t real.”

“Right.”

“No kissing unless it’s _necessary_.” She knows he hears the emphasis.

He gives her the half-grin she’s gotten so used to, but he doesn’t say anything more than, “got it.”

“Okay.” She leans onto the table, tucking a hand under her chin as she thinks. They’re interrupted by a waitress coming to take their empty dishes. She thanks her before turning her attention back to Barry.

“If the media contacts you,” she says, “let me know before you say anything.”

“I can handle the media, West. I’ve been dodging them for years.”

She scowls at the way he brushes it off, as if it’s inconsequential. “I am the media, Allen. Dodging the media about a robotics club is a lot different from trying to be silent about a girlfriend. They’re much more persistent on stuff like this.”

He stares at her for a long moment, head tilting.

“Look, this is a little different,” she tries. “We might have to make a statement, at the very least one to quell some of the lies. But let me know first, and I can tell you how to spin it.”

“I’d still rather not tell them anything.”

“ _They_ are the whole reason we’re doing this. It’s not your reputation on the line if this goes wrong.”

“My reputation is always on the line.”

Iris shakes her head, feeling herself get annoyed. “Let’s not mistake the glowing articles about your crime solving to lists about why I’m not good enough for you.”

His expression changes completely, morphing into one of simmering anger. “What are you talking about?”

“You should google us,” she tosses the words out casually, “see what your constituents are saying.”

“Damnit, West. Just tell me.” He leans up against the table.

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it. I don’t actually care. Just please, let me handle the news.”

He lets out a long sigh and then shakes his head, fingers absently curling in the hair at his nape. His gaze is heavy, and a little bit calculating, mouth pressed in a line.

“Yes,” he says finally. “I can do that. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Just one more thing.” She chugs the rest of her now cold coffee before looking him squarely in the eye. “When this is over, we make it look as mutual and un-messy as possible.”

They say their good-byes outside of Jitters, a quick hug that makes Iris a little lightheaded, (which is unwelcome because there is still the lingering irritation from before) and a promise to talk soon. She briefly contemplates blocking his number for a few days to give herself some time to think but she figures that’s too dramatic, even for her.

She decides to phone her dad as she walks to the office, and is pleased when he picks up on the third ring.

“Hi, daddy,” she greets him.

“Is this my long-lost daughter?” His voice comes over the line, low and jovial

“Yes, it is. I got your dramatic email.”

“Apparently, drama is the only way I can get you to call me.”

“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better.”

“Of course you will.” She hears some ruffling in the background and figures he must be at work. “Are you doing okay, though? How’s work?”

“Work is good. We’ve got a few big stories coming up. I’m working on the poison case with Detective Barnes.”

“That’s good, baby girl.” He pauses just as she’s walking through the door of her office building. “And what about you and Barry Allen?”

The door slams closed behind her, much like her heart against her ribcage. She hadn’t practiced what she was going to say to him, hadn’t figured out the best way to explain this without blatant lies. The journalist in her scoffs, contrite. She didn’t think of this at all angles, so worried about how this might look to the masses. Abstractly, she’d known their parents, their friends, would be involved, but after last night, the lies seem bigger, more absolute somehow.

“We are…” she starts but maybe God and Allah, and Buddha too, are looking out for her because he interrupts her.

“Baby, let me call you back. I’ve got a case.”

She thinks that the coast is clear. “Alright dad. Love you.”

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, distracted. Then, “Invite Barry on the trip. I know he’s got vacation coming up.”

Her mouth drops open. Her dad hangs up. Iris realizes that the deities are _not_ on her side.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she grumbles, because what else is she supposed to say?

She starts back up the stairs, cursing Barry as she goes for putting her in this nightmare of a predicament in the first place. When her phone beeps in her hand, she’s almost afraid to look. When she does peep down at the message, she regrets it immediately.

 _Barry:_ _Parents want to meet for dinner tomorrow night. I don’t think we can say no. They’ve been asking since the gala._

She pauses on the steps, her head swimming. Dinner with his parents. Barry on their _family vacation._ She’d known this was going to be a _thing_ , but all of a sudden, this seems like a really really bad idea. Maybe she should’ve just turned her phone off altogether.

She leans heavily against the staircase, mumbling softly, “Damnit, Barry Allen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I definitely did not mean to take over a month to get this out. I'm trying to finish a WIP for another fandom that's been in the works for a year now and this one got away from me.
> 
> I hope this doesn't disappoint after such a long wait. It was a bigger struggle than I'd anticipated. It's not even what I'd intended to write, but I sat down and this is what came out. This version of Iris and Barry is such a tipsy-topsy-turvy sort of version and it's both fun and vexing to write them.
> 
> If you did enjoy, please tell me what you liked about it. Give me a kudos. I read each and every one of your comments (religiously and often) and they are truly so kind and I'm very thankful for you all.
> 
> Hope to update soon! (And hope you're being safe!)
> 
> Elle <3


	6. VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, give our girl some grace.

VI.

_“The world was on fire and no one could save me but you; It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.”_

The Allen house is, for lack of a better word, _gorgeous_. It sits out on the outskirts of town, in a partially wooded area, next to houses as equally as well-kept and ostentatious as theirs. According to Barry, they’d designed and had it built in their first few years of marriage and, every couple years, they do some remodeling.

As it sits now, it is a sprawling two story structure, English manor in style. It’s a beautiful mix of light colored stone and pale red brick with triangular roofs, a heavy beechwood door, and a rushing water fountain sitting in the middle of their circular driveway. Iris does remember there being 4 or 5 bedrooms and a pool in the backyard but she’s unaware of any of the other changes they probably have made.

Sunday evening finds her in front of their house, unmoving on the side of Barry’s car. It’s an annoyingly nice car, a Mercedes that’s only a couple years old, with wood grain dashboards and black leather seats. Their ride over had been so smooth, she’d felt like she was gliding through the streets, and she hadn’t even minded their conversation, tidbits of what was going on in both of their jobs in between songs playing on the radio. Now, she stands against the sleek black car, fists clenched by her side, the wind whipping her dress against her thighs.

The day is glorious, perfectly lovely: a cloudless blue sky, warm with enough wind to stave off the worst of the heat, the faint sound of birds chirping. For all of this, she should feel good, ready to take on the night. But she isn’t, obviously she isn’t, because her subconscious has decided that Barry Allen is reason enough to turn into a fumbling, agitated, confused mess of a person. He’s always been so fucking annoying.

The offending party rounds the car and comes to a stop right in front of her. She catches the nice cut of his black pants in her sight first, one hand pushed firmly in the pocket. He’s wearing a yellow plaid shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and Iris doesn’t even like plaid but it fits so well with his whole vibe that she decides he looks great in it, and she’s slightly irked by that decision.

When she finally catches his eyes, he’s smirking at her. She shifts on the block heels of her bright blue shoes, bringing a pop of color to her slightly oversized black silk t-shirt dress she’s wearing. 

“You’re still pretending to be nervous?” he questions.

Iris scowls at him. “I’m not pretending.”

“Please, West. You are not scared to have dinner with my parents. _You_ kept me from looking like an idiot the last time they saw us. ”

He seems to be much calmer about his parents than when they were at the gala and she makes a mental note to ask him about it later.

“A task I should have been paid for,” she offers instead.

Barry shakes his head in faux anguish. “It’s like you only want me for my money.”

“Duh, Allen,” she agrees. “It’s the only thing that makes spending time with you somewhat bearable.”

“Hmmm.” Barry hums, as if thinking. He moves in, closing a bit of the distance between them. He reaches up, straightening the chunky gold necklace she’s wearing, his hand just grazing her chest as he moves away.

“I’m worth a lot more than my money, Iris,” he says, voice low and teasing, though there’s another emotion there too.

“That still remains to be seen,” Iris mumbles, but there’s no bite to her words.

His answering nod seems less like he feels slighted and more like some sort of a challenge. It makes Iris uneasy, wary about what’s going on behind those ocean green eyes. When he runs a knuckle down down her cheek, that swirling, calming feeling returns.

Her voice is uncharacteristically soft when she asks, “Do you understand the concept of personal space, Barry Allen?” 

His grin is a lot more indulgent than it has any right to be. “You like it, West.”

Before she can come up with something clever to say, or even just deny it, she hears Henry Allen’s booming voice yelling, “What are y’all doing out there?” from the porch.

Nora Allen adds, “Come on in!” and Iris stands up straighter against the car. Barry doesn’t move away immediately. 

“You sure you’re okay with doing this?”

“Yes,” she breathes out. “You’re right. I’m great with parents, especially yours, and charming people our parents’ age is a special skill of mine.”

Barry laughs out loud and grabs her hand to lead her to his parents’ front door. “Oh, I have no doubt.”

The Allens lead them through a richly decorated foyer after a few long seconds of hugs and smiles at the front door. They end up in what she supposes is the living room. The decor is much lighter in style than the heavy brick outside would imply. A huge light gray sectional sits around the focal point, a beautiful fireplace, the mantle made of the same creamy stone from outside. The decor is simple and clean: beautiful gold framed portraits, a glass topped coffee table, and dark gray side tables that match the open curtains on the large bay windows. There are pops of color around to break up the monotony of the cream and gray, throw pillows with brilliant navy swirls, a mixed color carpet with bits of hunter and pale red throughout. 

“Your home is beautiful,” Iris says. “I really love this rug.”

“Oh thank you, Iris dear.” Nora smiles genially. “It has been a while since you’ve been out to visit, huh?”

Nora glances over at Barry, frowning at him as if to say it’s all his fault. Iris, at least, agrees wholeheartedly.

“We thought we’d do takeout and a movie,” Henry says, catching their attention.

Nora nods. “Barry told us that you might be nervous with anything too formal.”

Iris whips her head around to look at Barry standing just behind her. 

“Thanks, nerd,” she nearly growls and he just grins sheepishly, the tips of his ears coloring.

“I only meant,” he starts, but he trails off and just leaves it.

Nora, not listening as she putters around, picking up blankets from the sofa, continues.

“We told him that’d be ridiculous, but then I thought, it’d be a perfect time to try out the new home theater.”

That catches Barry’s attention. “What?”

“Movie night!” Henry exclaims, then looks out of the window. “Or rather, movie afternoon, I suppose.”

For some reason, Iris feels a sudden inexplicable need to laugh. Nora and Henry appear so excited and Barry looks so painstakingly confused that she bites at her lip to not laugh out loud, squeezing Barry’s hand in the process.

Nora looks to Iris to explain more fully. “We’ve just converted one of the basements into a fully functioning theater.”

“Wait,” Barry pauses her. “When did you guys do that?”

“Few months back.”

Barry nods. “Right,” he mutters faintly.

“We’ve both cut our hours tremendously,” Henry tells them. “Our focus is mostly on the foundation and making sure the gala is a success each year.”

“That leaves us with a lot more time.” Nora walks over to where Iris and Barry are standing, reaching up to pat her son’s cheek. “And now you finally get to see it.”

The Allens lead them toward a short set of stairs that lead down into the basement. Gold plated sconces light their path and Barry and Iris follow them at a distance.

“You didn’t know your parents had a movie theater in the house?” Iris leans into him with a lowered voice as they continue down the hall.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I’ve been busy so I’ve mostly been meeting them in town. They never even mentioned it.”

Iris finds herself giggling. “It’s definitely something I’d expect from you and not them.”

“Yeah, well.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Told you they were being weird.”

“I think it’s fun,” Iris says, looking up at him. “Who doesn’t love movies and it’s nice of them to try something they think might settle me.”

Barry glances at her, a smile tugging at his lips, open and honest. “See,” he murmurs. “Charming.”

They come to a stop inside the basement and Iris gasps. It’s a literal theater. The room is not overly large, but it makes good use of the space. It’s decorated in the same color palette as the living room they’d just left. The screen covers an entire wall and sits in front of 12 reclining theater chairs, four in three rows. Off to the side is a small kitchenette featuring a popcorn machine, a hot dog machine, and a nearly full bar. Six half back chairs line the other side of the bar.

“Oh my God, this is amazing,” Iris gushes, because it absolutely is. 

“Thank you, Iris.” 

“Come on over to the bar. We can talk and decide on what to eat.”

The bar is a lot more spacious than it looks at first glance, and Iris, Barry, and Nora have a seat while Henry walks around and begins pulling out supplies to make cocktails.

“What’s your poison, Iris?”

“Um,” she says unsurely. “Martini?”

He smiles at her. “Excellent choice.” He grabs four martini glasses from somewhere behind the bar.

“Oh no dad, I’m okay. I’m driving.”

Henry waves his hand at him. “It’s just one.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, watching as Henry pours and shakes their drinks. Barry settles himself on the stool beside her, Nora on her other side, and much like at the club the night before, he’s turned his body sideways to face her. Her body’s facing forward, legs crossed to her right where Barry sits, though she gives her attention to his parents. One of his knees points toward hers, the other against the legs of her chair, and she is surrounded by him.

Nora finally starts the interrogation she’s been waiting for. "So Barry has been surprisingly tight-lipped about you two. How'd y'all get back together?"

Iris frowns at the "back" but continues on. She and Barry hadn't talked much about their so-called back story but she figures it's best to stick as close to the truth as possible. She spins a tale about seeing him more often because of their respective jobs. The nostalgia had led to a coffee date, and then another, and finally, he’d asked her to accompany him to the gala.

They both seemed pleased, identical smiles on their faces. 

“That makes me happy,” Nora says.

Henry nods as he slides their drinks to them. Iris smiles back and takes a sip of her drink, nearly choking at the sheer amount of alcohol in the martini. Barry leans forward, his hand placed at the small of her back, to whisper, "that is why I tried to decline."

The humor in his voice (and his hand, rubbing absently up and down her spine) makes her giggle, the sound unexpected and a little bit hysterical.

"What are you two whispering about?" Henry asks. "You two seem so cozy."

"Oh they were always like that when they were kids." Nora seems excited now as she sips from her glass—without making a face, Iris should add—and then turns to them, hands clasped in glee.

"Remember, Henry?" she asks. "They were so inseparable; they'd go everywhere together, off in their own little worlds. we could never get them to sit down for more than a few minutes and when they were, they'd always be whispering and giggling about something."

"I didn't giggle," Barry grumbles from behind her.

"Oh, you definitely did, son." Henry reaches over and ruffles Barry's hair. Barry bats at his hand, but Iris sees the small grin that accompanies his eye roll. 

For a moment, the action makes her miss her own dad. She hasn't seen him since before the gala a couple weeks ago. As much as she wants to avoid him, she does miss the presence of Joe West. She can imagine him here with them too, teasing them about their childhood. Barry mentions often how his parents have always liked her, but it's pretty much the same the other way around. In fact, when Iris would go home in high school and complain about something Barry had done, he'd always attempt to get her to see things from his point of view, to wonder what Barry was thinking. Obviously, she hadn't dared--it was always Barry's fault, after all—but it was just another trait about her father that made her proud, his open and honest empathy. She sees that too, their pride for each other, in the way that Barry and his parents interact. 

"...it was always Iris this and Iris that," Iris hears as she brings herself back to the conversation. She's missed what they were talking about, but when she turns to Barry, his face is tinged pink and he won't look at her, a long fingered hand rubbing at the nape of his neck. It's why she can't resist. She turns and lifts his chin with her finger. 

"You don't have to be embarrassed, babe," she tells him. "It's okay if you've always been obsessed with me."

She doesn't know what she's expecting his response to be, but the flash in his eyes is not it. It's a quick thing, the whole reaction, that flash of his eyes, the tongue wiping across his pink mouth, the tightening grip on his martini glass. He looks a bit in shock, but also like he's thinking, thinking of something specific and maybe discomfiting and Iris feels strangely bereft, that she cannot read him.

His parents laugh and it breaks up the entire moment, with the exception of the flush still in his cheeks and the heavy, confounding swirl that keeps her looking at him.

"Are you okay?" she finds herself asking quietly. "I was only joking."

"Of course." He nods once, twice, a third time for good measure. "It just brought a memory back."

She wants to dig deeper, to ask more questions, to figure out which memory put that look on his face, but then the Allens are dumping a bunch of takeout brochures on the bar and they're pulled into finding dinner.

"Ooh," Nora squeals suddenly, as Iris is looking at a menu for New York style pizza. This squeal indicates that Nora has remembered some other tidbit about Barry and Iris from years long passed, and they're taken on a whirlwind of wistful remembrance.

Barry and Iris had been friends since nearly the time they were born until their distancing and Iris has, somehow, forgotten about so many of their formative years twisted together.

Nora talks about the time that Barry had sprained his arm. Iris had dared him to climb a tree and when he'd inevitably fallen, it'd been on his arm. He was lucky it wasn't broken and they'd gotten a stern talking to after the fact, but Iris remembers being the first one to sign his cast, her name written out in cursive with hearts next to the I and the t.

Henry mentions the time that Iris had been in a school play. Their middle school drama teacher had been weirdly infatuated with Disney princess movies and they'd put on a production of _Aladdin_. In Iris's one and only acting gig, she'd landed the role of Jasmine in the play. Barry had made signs of congratulations for her and she remembers the unadulterated joy she'd felt seeing him smile back at her from in the crowd.

There are a few more stories while they decide on the pizza and wait for it to be delivered. They also talk about the period after Iris's mom died, though they don't address it as such, and all the dinners she joined them for. Often, she'd ride home with Barry and his mom or dad after school and they'd spend the couple hours after school completing homework at the kitchen table. After, they'd play outside or, if it was too cold, in Barry's room where he kept games and puzzles. When the other Allen parent got home, they'd all circle the dining room table and eat take out until they were stuffed. Iris's dad would pick her up some time after, stopping to chat for a few moments with the Allens, before they'd gone home to relieve the baby-sitter, to a house that seemed colder and stiller and lacking the life it once had.

As they'd gotten older and Iris had spent more time babysitting Wally, the tables turned. Barry would come over after clubs and help her with Wally and with her science homework while she corrected the grammar on his essays. With him there, her house didn't feel so lonely anymore, didn't quite keep that same odd energy that had seemed to permeate. Even Joe had liked his presence, how endearingly open young Barry was that it had felt unfair to let the guilt and the sorrow that had seeped in after Francine was gone stifle all that.

Like everything, it'd tapered off in high school. Wally was put into daycare programs that watched him until she got home from school so Iris could join more extracurriculars. Barry joined his own clubs and eventually, their interests diverted so far from each other that it'd all seemed like a fluke, like it was only childhood and proximity that had made them friends.

************

Dinner is eaten quickly at the bar, a couple slices each before they grab fresh drinks and make their way to their chairs for the movie. The chairs are recliners, with cupholders on either side instead of in the middle, allowing the two occupants to lounge more comfortably without cupholders in the way.

She watches first as Henry and Nora cuddle into one another with one of the blankets she'd brought down with them, and then as Barry stretches his long body out on the set of chairs next to them. It suddenly occurs to Iris what movie night means, what sitting in a darkened theater might do. She’s not afraid of anything _wrong_ (they’re at his parents’, after all) but there’s still how close they’ll be, and the blanket she’s already reaching for because in the air conditioned room, she feels a little cold in her dress, and she absolutely knows she’s going to be sharing it with him, pressed against him. She moves in measured actions, takes the time to slowly unbuckle her shoes, sitting one neatly beside the chair before she repeats the steps with the other.

She climbs in beside Barry and he promptly wraps her up in his arms, leaning down to whisper “relax” in her ear. She tries, as the Allens choose some family friendly action movie she’s never heard of and as they press a button that plunges them into darkness, only the screen lighting the room for them. She tries as Barry fixes the blanket over both of them, as she just settles into the crook of his arm, as she lets herself be lulled by his even breathing, by the steady _tap-tap, tap-tap_ , of his heart.

But then she does. She gets into the movie and when he settles a hand on her knee, she gazes at him. He’s completely into the movie and she figures he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—touching her, she means—so she lets him, keeps her heartbeat as steady as she can, keeps her confusion at bay as she too loses herself in the movie.

  
  


The Allens start to move when the movie is over, and Iris blinks awake, stretching against Barry. They don’t move right away and Barry and Iris watch as they gather their blanket and empty drink glasses.

“We’re going to head upstairs, son,” Henry tells them. “Feel free to stay, watch another movie if you want.”

“We’ll be heading out in just a bit,” Barry assures them before waving goodbye as they head upstairs, taking their blanket and the pizza box with them. 

Iris and Barry don’t speak, content to sit in the silence of the room. Her head is pressed into his shoulder and she's still probably half asleep, good food and strong drinks and the darkness of the room calming her. The screen must be on some sort of self-timer because they're only sitting there quietly for a few minutes before it shutters off. And then there is only the sound of their breathing, low and even, and if it weren't for the way his fingers are playing on her knees, she would think he was asleep.

“Have you always been such a tactile person?” Her voice is nearly a whisper and the only way she knows he hears her is because he pauses his ministrations. He doesn't completely move his hand when he faces her.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She takes notice of how they're sitting. She's half draped on top of him, still snuggled under his arms with her legs half on top of his. The blanket covers her over her knees, so she can't see his hands where he's touching, his fingers like phantom pricks of heat on her skin.

“You answer first,” she stalls, because she'll admit here, in the cover of the darkness, under the guise of a date with a man whose mere touch is making her feel unsteady, she is not ready to outright say she likes it.

They aren’t drunk, but the couple of drinks have helped to create this heady sort of atmosphere that swirls around them in clouds of lustful uncertainty.

“Yes,” he answers and his voice is softer than it’s called for. Or maybe it is right, because this seems to be one of those nights that’ll flip and change them in ways neither will recognize right away, and the nearly whispered words feel fitting.

He clarifies, “I’ve always been tactile. I got in trouble a lot, as a kid, for touching things at stores." He smiles. "Although, it was probably breaking the things that actually got me in trouble."

"Ah, yes," she laughs. "Clumsy Barry. I remember him.”

“Yes, clumsy Barry.” He chuckles too, but it sounds just the slightest bit off.

“And then you grew into these limbs.”

“Hmm mmm,” he mumbles. “Now I only trip when you’re around.”

“What?” The statement doesn’t make any sense, because this is Barry, no this is _Allen:_ nerdy but sure, sometimes sweet, but more often confident and self-assured, even when he’s blushing at her words even when he’s rubbing at the nape of his neck and his cheeks are flaming red.

“No,” Barry shakes his head. “That’s another conversation for another day.”

She feels the touch of his fingers on her again, just above her knee. It is like before, sitting under the darkness of the theater. But Iris can no longer pretend like it isn’t deliberate, like he doesn’t mean the shapes, the stars, the words she’s sure he’s nearly stitching into her skin.

“Now you have to answer my question.”

“Question?” she asks, acting as if she hasn’t been thinking about it since he asked her.

“Do you want me to stop touching you, Iris?”

He sounds so close to her ear, her head still tucked under his chin, but he feels so much closer, like he’s inside her, moving around, changing and rearranging parts of her that she’s sure she had locked away. She doesn't know what it means, cannot comprehend the way she feels sitting next to him, pressed into him, being touched by him. She knows that it’s all a front, that being here with him like this is only a game they’re playing. But, tonight, it feels so much more real than before. Even without the tranquil mood that screams _date_ and _intimacy_ and _look at what could be_ , she’d felt the staggering anticipation as she’d waited for him at the door of her apartment, and the skeptical joy at his attempt to make conversation as they’d driven outside of Central City’s city limits. She’d spend the entire night in an amalgamation of comfort and delight, of cautious indulgence, and now, _now,_ a shot of unbridled lust swarms through her and settles at her core.

So she looks up at him before she answers, just to see what he looks like, what his eyes are telling her. There’s too much there to decipher, 

(too much that looks like more than lust, too much that looks like a feeling that will still be there tomorrow, and the day after, in the light of day, in front of the world)

but there is no mistaking the desire that rings his eyes, there in his darkening irises. 

He stuns her, and for a long moment, she cannot speak, cannot do anything other than breathe, her heart hammering loudly against her ribcage. When she shakes her head, telling him _no, please don’t stop touching me_ , he merely smiles. He moves his hand away from her knee and his smile widens at the little sound of protest at the back of her throat. But then his palm is against her face, his thumb rubbing against the apple of her cheek, and then his mouth is on hers and the sound she makes is a bit different.

Having been kissed by Barry twice before, she expects that she’s ready for the flood of emotion that comes with the feel of his mouth moving against hers. This kiss tells her that that’s untrue, that even as she recognizes the now too familiar taste of him, her body still tremors at the feel of him, solid and hard against where she’s so much softer. 

His hand settles at the nape of her neck as he deepens the kiss, pressing firmly against her mouth before tonguing at the seam to open her up. She follows his directive, parting her mouth to accept him, tasting the sweetness of him and growing warm at the taste of him too. She doesn’t know how long they’re like this, just kissing, her hand in her lap, his pressing lightly at the back of her scalp. Maybe it’s just a few earth-shattering seconds, maybe it’s so toe-curling that she actually loses time. All she knows is that soon, it isn’t enough. She wants him touching her again, touching everywhere, anywhere he wants: brushing the nipples that are pushing against the silk of her bra; down her tightening, clenching belly; _hell_ , even on her knees again, because at least she could tell what’s it’d be like if they were actually on her thighs.

She doesn’t even think it’s a conscious decision, when she shifts until she’s straddling him. The move breaks the kiss, though, and Barry looks startled. And stunned, his mouth pink and wet and swollen, his eyes so dark she can’t even tell what color they are in the still darkness of the room. She wonders what she looks like, if she looks like him, if he can tell how turned on she is by the look of her, by the way she’s nearly gulping in air to steady herself.

“You’re not touching me, Allen,” she explains and she doesn’t even recognize the sound of her voice, not the deep, throaty, lyrical way she pronounces the word. Suddenly he is, though, touching her, his hands pressed firmly on her hips. They nearly burn her, his hands on her, and she doesn’t know what else to do but kiss him again.

To her own bliss, his hands are not still for long. He places one big palm at the center of her back, there to keep her still, and then he explores. He plays with the hem of her dress where he’s ridden up against her thighs, just under the curves of her ass. He traces in her skin, shapes and letters that make no sense, all to the rhythm of their kiss. On her back is the same thing, writing a song or a poem or god, _something_ , into the curve of her spine.

He moves up, taking the dress with him, until the silk is settled at her waist and his hand is on her thigh, so close to her sex that she already feels him, already knows what’ll be like when he finally does.

At the first swipe of his finger along the middle of her sex, she gasps against his mouth. Her eyes flutter open to find him watching her.

“Can I touch you here?” he asks and she finds herself nodding without a single thought.

He swipes at her again, just vaguely, but even with the lightness of his touch, she knows that he can tell how wet she is, how embarrassingly damp her panties are.

“Can I taste you here too?” he asks, and his voice is a deep and dirty whisper.

Iris chokes on air, her breath catching in her throat. “I…” she starts, but she discovers whatever words she’d had, she can no longer find.

He waits for her answer, his eyes never straying from hers, but he keeps wondering, wandering, his fingers now at the edge of her panties. She jumps a little at the contact and it makes him smile, a small secret vaguely cocky smile, and then he’s pushing the fabric to the side. She feels the rush of cool air on her overheated pussy for just a few seconds before he’s tracing down the middle of her again, his elegantly calloused fingers sliding right down the middle of her slit.

“ _Barry,”_ she finds herself whispering or moaning or otherwise calling out into the room. 

“You’re so soft, Iris,” he whispers against her mouth, his long finger pushing in to the knuckle. “Tell me I can find out if you’re as sweet too.”

She is the journalist, the writer. It is her life’s goal to take words and spin them so that they reveal emotion, so that they tug at the heart, so that they make people _feel_. But it is him, who is doing that, who is making _her_ feel, making her warm and wet and whole, at least a little bit more whole than when they got here first. When he pushes another finger in her, she thinks she starts whimpering, so his question of “please?” is met with an absolute yes. 

He maneuvers them so that the chair is no longer reclined, and he sinks to his knees in front of her. This anticipation is nerve-wracking. She thinks, even as he is pushing her dress back up over her hips and even as he’s touching her with reverence, hands slow as caresses up her calves, the outside of her thighs and back down again. On his third run, when she might as well be melting into the chair, he peels her panties off, slow and easy, tossing them back over his shoulder. He widens her legs with sure hands, and she’s bare to him, open and dripping and, _good lord, why has she never felt like this before?_

Iris is not new to sex; she’s not new to this position, even, but there is something about Barry Allen kneeling before her, hair mussed from her own hands, eyes dark and glassy, lips still a bit swollen, that makes her excited in a way that sex has never made her feel.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he whispers and he is still looking between her legs, but Iris thinks that maybe he just means she’s beautiful, period.

The first swipe of his tongue mimics his finger sliding through her slit, though he flattens it, enough to gather the taste of her there. Another swipe and he dallies at her opening, steady and teasing. 

“Barry…” she murmurs into the air. “Stop…”

“Stop?” he looks up at her, probably ready to move away, to back up, because it’s Allen and, regardless, of course he’d stop when she said so. But, no, that’s not what she means and she shakes her head to tell him, “no, don’t stop, just…” and she rocks her hips against her mouth to explain.

He gets it, she knows he does, because he grins, fucking _mischievously_ , and plants his face back into her sex.

Iris will no doubt look at him differently after this. When they’re no longer doing this, when they are back to eye-rolls and bickering every time they see each other, she’ll remember this. She’ll think of his hands first: how steadily he holds her body; how his fingers thrum against her, inside her; how they look coated in her slick, wet and sticky; how easily he uses them to pull moans from her. 

She’ll think of his eyes: how intently they watch her as he made her body shake and _writhe_ and dance; how she’ll know that his pupils dilate when he’s aroused, that the tinge of blue that’s left turns a deep, royal color; how there are more words and more sayings and probably whole books (about her, she feels like, especially when he’s eating her like this) written in the depths of his orbs.

But mostly, she’ll think of his mouth, his tongue: how he alternates with licking her in long, slow strokes and then tapping against her clit, keeping her on edge and panting; how at one point, he just stops and let her ride his tongue, almost bringing herself to orgasm before he stops her and brings her back down, only to take her back to edge at his own command.

She wishes she could see the picture that they make when she comes. She is sprawled on the chair, knees spread wide, ankles hanging over his shoulders. He is in front of her, hands gripping her hips, mouth dripping. It is _lewd_ , the look of him, the look of them, and she watches as he dives back in, closes his wet lips around her nub, and he sucks. She _just_ stops from screaming out, remembering where she is, but she bites down on her lip, probably hard enough to draw blood, and she makes a long, high mewling sound in her throat. She comes so hard that she, truly, thinks that she blacks out.

************

"Barry, are y’all still down here?”

The sound of Barry’s mother shocks her. She scrambles, sitting up and moving her legs away from Barry’s shoulders. Her movements are slow and Barry’s are too, his eyes glazed over, his expression a little bit dazed, her arousal still painting his mouth.

Barry coughs, rubbing a hand down his face before gazing up at Iris. “Yeah, mom. We fell asleep, but we’re getting ready to head out.”

He stands after he says it, awkwardly adjusting himself in his pants, and when he tries to catch her eyes, Iris finds that she can’t look at him. She manages to discreetly straighten her dress and pick her panties up off of the floor as she stands too, just as Nora walks into the opening of the theater. She is in her pajamas, hair messy from sleep, and Iris figures she’d gotten up to use the restroom, to make sure the house had been locked up.

“You know you all are welcome to stay,” she says. “The guest rooms are made up.”

Iris runs her hand through her hair, wondering if Nora can tell, just by looking at them, what’s happened, what she feels. She wants to know because if she does, if Nora can make sense of this, maybe she’d be able to tell Iris.

“Um, no, mom that’s alright. We’ve both got work early in the morning.”

“Of course,” she nods. “Well, be careful driving back to the city at this hour.”

“We will.”

She nods again. “Iris, lovely to see you again.”

“Absolutely, Nora.”

Nora smiles tiredly and then she’s gone, as quietly as she’d arrived. Iris makes quick work of folding the blanket neatly on the chair, knowing they won’t pass the living room on their way to the front door.

“Ready?” Barry asks her, digging in his pocket for his keys. When he finds them, he clutches his fingers around them and Iris watches, bombarded with the too recent feel of them playing with her body.

“Yes,” she says, stepping into her shoes. “Let’s go.”

“Iris…”

Something in the sound of his voice makes her turn to him, and it’s an expression she’s seen before, like he’s trying to make a statement.

“I’m good,” she says softly. “It was the moment, right? And the alcohol and the…” she waves her hand vaguely, because she’s not even sure what she means to say or what she’s thinking or what she hopes to accomplish by ignoring this.

“Iris,” he tries, but she’s shaking her head to stop him, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Let’s just go, Barry,” she says, and even to her, it sounds a little bit like she’s pleading.

Barry looks at her for a long time, eyes darting as he searches, trying to figure out what she isn’t saying, what she’s hiding, what she hasn’t been able to figure out with the information presented to her.

He nods at her, and it isn’t as accepting as she was hoping. It is steely, stubborn, the look of someone who’s taken what’s been given to him and flipped it on it’s head, deciding on a course of action that might absolutely change her.

But all he says is, “okay; let’s go,” and Iris has no choice but to follow him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iris really is going through it.
> 
> Enough of that. Y'ALL! The comments on the last chapter were so amazing and I am so so thankful for y'all. These days are long and way too much and every time I got the notification that I got a new comment, I was so floored by how much y'all are enjoying and willing to rock with me while I figure out where this is even going (especially because I literally don't know anything until I sit down to write.) I say all that to say: THANK YOU!
> 
> Next chapter: road trip! It'll be fun (I hope) and hopefully only a little bit angsty.
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> Elle <3


	7. VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trip.

_VII._

_“I'd never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you; And I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you.”_

As Iris sits in the passenger seat of Barry’s Mercedes, watching the trees fly by in a blur, there are several things she wishes she could say to him and blame him for. They range from still being mad that he’d ditched her on a series of occasions when she was in 8th grade to wanting to throttle him for making her ride in the car with him.

9th grade Barry had fallen in with Tristen first, an arrogant and absolutely annoying boy who’d told Barry that high school was about breaking off contact with everything from middle school; that it meant being true to oneself and that didn’t include hanging out with Iris, who didn’t enjoy science, who didn’t like read science fiction, who was always getting Barry into trouble.

It’d been a gradual release, Iris remembers. She’d invite him over to study and while he would take her up on it sometimes, more often than not he wouldn't, citing a different type of workload. It’d made sense, of course it had, but when “I can’t come to study” had turned into “can we rain check on movie night?” had turned into, “I just can’t make it, Iris,” she’d discovered that was the beginning of the end.

As much as she wants to pretend she doesn’t care, that she isn’t still mad, Iris hates the way they ended. They were _friends,_ the best of. The kind who knew each other’s quirks, who could infer each other’s feelings. They’d been inseparable and it had seemed so easy for Barry just to throw it all away. They’re adults now; it’s something that maybe she should put behind them. But this them, the snarky, faintly angry, _irritating_ them, still somehow rings true. They’ve been this for over half of the time they’ve known each other, and it is not as if it is a lie. Iris does find Barry a little snobby, and the fact that he thinks he knows everything can definitely get on her nerves. Iris knows that Barry finds her a little bit bitter, quick with a remark that is not always necessary.

This new change in their dynamic, though, is not one she can fully account for. It is why being in this car, with him, that’s the worst of her grievances. 

Since the onset of family vacation, Iris and her family have alternated the choosing of locations. It’d been difficult to find a place that each of them agreed on at the same time—even when it was just Wally, Iris, and their dad doing the choosing—so after their first year, Joe came up with the idea that every year, another person would get to decide on their choice place, as long as it fit the criteria: warm, sunny, and somewhere near a beach. After a few years, Linda was added to the rotation and so had Cecile, Joe’s wife, when they’d gotten married during Iris's senior year of college. 

This year, Cecile has chosen Savannah. Neither of them have ever been to the southern tourist city, but Iris has heard a lot of great things about the beauty of the architecture and the landscape. The flight is only a few hours, but the drive from Central City is nearly 11 hours long.

She’d had her plane ticket already, a semi-comfortable seat next to Linda and behind Wally. Iris likes flying, unlike many people she knows. Hurtling through the air in a giant metal box at harrowing speeds is of no consequence when it allows her a few hours to unplug, to put on some Erykah Badu or some Sam Cooke and just be. No one can get to her when she’s that high; she feels a little above it all, able to put aside whatever is on her mind as she loses herself in music. She’d had to give up her ticket—thank god it had been insured— in order to ride shotgun with Barry. He’d not been able to get a flight out on the same day and figured he’d just take the 11 hour drive down. Her father had immediately suggested she ride with him and what would it have looked like that she declined? It’s all she can do to not squirm continuously in her seat. 11 hours in a car with him? With the still too vivid memory of his hands, of his _mouth_ , driving her insane?

She recalls the week in between then and now. Linda and Iris will be gone from the office for only a week—it is the longest either of them can conceivably take off—and they’ll still be working remotely, but it had still required all hands on deck to get prepared, from completing a few interviews to working out logistics with Allegra and Kamilla. It was time consuming.

That, she was grateful for. It meant that she hadn’t had time to speak to Barry at all, other than a few texts to coordinate what time he’d be there to pick her up for their ill-conceived road trip. The rush of it had allowed her to put what happened between her and Barry on the backburner, to chalk it up to alcohol and an unusual comfort (and definitely not his whispered compliments or his long, calloused fingers, his too talented tongue or the softness she'd felt, lying there with him). 

It’s back, though, ten-fold, that disorienting feeling she’s had since that night, making a reappearance this morning when she’d swung her door open to reveal him on the other side. All he’d done was stand there, hands in the pockets of a pair of gray joggers that looked, quite frankly, a bit too obscene for a cross country drive, and a plain white t-shirt. Emotion had flooded her, everything that Iris had been ignoring since dinner settling at her core: the feel of those fingers inside her body; his tongue laving at her skin; the warm scent of him on her clothes when she'd gotten home.

“Hi,” he’d spoken, eyes a little wide. “I, uh, I like your hair.”

He’d seemed a little shell-shocked and the startled puppy look had made her forget for a moment that she’d gotten box braids for the trip, the long neat braids hanging to the middle of her back.

“Thank you.”

She’d felt hot all of a sudden, muttering “fuck," before heading into her kitchen to get a glass of water. Barry had shuffled in after her, calling "Iris, are you okay?" over the slamming of cabinets. She’d had to chug half of her glass before she was able to look at him, and then she’d been infinitely grateful that he’d been actually walking around her front room, looking at her apartment. It’d occurred to Iris that Barry had never seen her loft; and so she’d watched as he curiously wandered through the room, gazing at the decorations, picking up some of the knick knacks on the bookshelves, his fingers trailing along the titles.

"Who'd you have to blackmail to afford an apartment like this, West?" he’d questioned when he’d turned back to her, and it was just annoyingly haughty enough to ease some of the tension.

"Oh, screw you, Allen," she’d muttered, his laugh a tinkle in her ear. It’d made her think that he was ignoring it too, that maybe it _hadn’t_ been a big deal, fucking into her with his tongue, making her whimper and moan in a way that Iris never has before.

The thought had stunned her, the idea that maybe Barry Allen just goes around putting his mouth on any woman who asks. It would explain why his nerdy ass is such a fucking stud all of a sudden, but Iris hadn’t (and still doesn’t) like the way the thought made her feel ill.

Now, she carries that with her as she sits beside him in his black car. Physically, she’s far too comfortable. In a pair of thin gray leggings and a matching cropped hoodie, her hair piled on top of her head—a scarf around the edges to keep them neat—she’s settled in the warm leather seats. He’s got the air at the perfect temperature and he’s playing music, some alt rock, the sound breaking into the early morning. Emotionally, she’s up and down and spiraling, and hasn’t quite figured out how they’re going to make it through this trip.

They’ve been driving for not an hour yet; it’s still dark out, and only his headlights and those of a few other cars on the road light their path.

“When are we stopping for coffee?” she wants to know.

“I told you I wanted to at least get out of Central City first,” he explains to her, again. She feels the same way she did when he’d told her this upon leaving her apartment.

“Are we not out of Central City yet?” She shifts in her seat a bit. “You drive like a fucking maniac so I figure we’d be halfway there by now.”

She turns to him but he doesn’t look at her right away. He does grin, lips curving up in subtle mischief. She rolls her eyes, at that smile, at his handsome profile, at the way he seems to just be humoring her. He’s got such a strong jawline, the _faintest_ bit of hair darkening his chin—it was probably too early for him to shave. He looks unconcerned, almost as if this were a regular occurrence: the two of them taking a trip together, Iris begging for coffee, Barry laughing at her because her grumpiness doesn’t phase him. It’s something Iris of old could have seen for future them.

“Linda told me I should bring coffee with me to pick you up,” he says, “but I guess I’d forgotten how much you can’t function without coffee.”

“Wait, when did you talk to Linda?”

He waves a hand absently and pretends to concentrate on switching lanes unnecessarily. Iris frowns when he doesn’t answer, making a mental note to text Linda when she knows she’d be awake to figure out what in the hell she said to Barry.

“It’s not that I can’t function,” Iris picks up the previous conversation. “I just don’t see why I should have to.”

Barry hums, nodding as if what she’s just said makes perfect sense.

“How about this?” he tries. “How about we throw on something you’d want to listen to, something softer? Maybe Musiq Soulchild? You still listen to him, right?”

“Yes,” she says, a bit softly. She thinks back to the beginning of her sixth grade year. She’d somehow discovered the musicality of Musiq Soulchild, and she’d spent many a morning laid out in the grass, headphones in as she listened to music on her iPod, Barry beside her, his nose in some science fiction book. It’d been their routine, of sorts, a way to come down from the feelings that puberty and change and the strange thoughts about Barry that had begun to plague her.

“Alright. I’ll play some Musiq, and you take a nap. When you wake up, we’ll get breakfast and coffee.”

She wants to argue, mostly for the sake of arguing, but it makes no sense to.

“Fine,” she agrees, letting her seat all the way down and fluffing her travel pillow. “But I want a full breakfast. Pancakes and scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. And the largest coffee available.”

“Of course, your highness,” he says and Iris scowls at him, causing him to toss a smile her way before he asks Siri to play Musiq.

She closes her eyes, settling into the seat. She feels a sense of contentment, for a moment: the calming scent of Barry’s cologne, the soothing instruments behind Musiq’s voice, the easy glide of the car.

She drifts off to sleep.

************

They stop for breakfast when they're about an hour and a half outside of West Virginia. 

When she wakes up, it’s because the car has stopped in front of the restaurant and the sun is higher in the sky, beating down on her through the window. It's the middle of June, and Iris assumes that the more South they get, the hotter it'll be. Even with the added stress of Barry being on the trip with them, she's remembered to pack nothing but dresses and shorts for their beach vacation, and she's glad to see that the hotter weather is holding.

The diner that Barry has parked in front of is an old-school type diner, the white paint chipped in many areas, the words _Mo's Diner_ written in lights and cursive atop the roof. It's the sort of place that makes you think of french fries dipped in malt vinegar and strawberry milkshakes with two straws.

"Iris," Barry calls to catch her attention, but she sits up, wiping at her eyes as she mumbles, "I'm awake."

"Come on. Let's get pancakes and all of the coffee your body can handle."

He gives her a wink and then he gets out, beckoning for her to follow.

The diner is packed for so early on a Sunday morning, but Iris spots a few corner seats from her position behind Barry. Many of the patrons seem to be families with a few solo stragglers sitting at the bar chugging coffees. It looks quite like Iris had imagined, with red vinyl booths along the walls, black topped tables matching the black and chrome bar taking up the rest of the area in front of the kitchen. The floor is covered in checked tile and the two waitresses that Iris are wearing black pants and shirts in a similar print. He leads her to a booth near the back, sliding into the seat opposite the entrance. She sits across from him.

She immediately starts fumbling with things on the table, picking up the salt and pepper shakers, fingering the three different containers of various syrups sitting next to the sugar packets. When she goes for that too, Barry puts his hand on top of her to still her. She's always noticed his hands—his wide palms, his long fingers—but knowing the feel of them on her skin is different. She still thinks about it, despite her attempt to keep the thoughts at bay: the slip and slide of them inside her body, the strength of them on her hips, the ghost of a feeling still there when she moves. 

When she looks up at him, shaking her head to clear the images, he's smirking at her. "Have you never been out in public before?"

She rolls her eyes and slaps at his hand. "Oh leave me alone. I've just always loved the idea of diners that still looked like this."

Barry chuckles, shaking his head at her. "It's only a diner, West."

"But it's _the_ quintessential diner, Allen. I can imagine me and a boyfriend here in high school, doing homework, sharing french fries."

"Ahhh," he nods, pulling his hand back. He leans back into his seat. "Yes. You and all those lame jocks you went out with in high school?"

"Lame jocks?" She shakes her head. "I didn't date only 'lame jocks,'" she punctuates this with air quotes, "as you call them."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Not how I remember it. You and your beaus were always CCH headlines."

"Beaus?”

His answering hum is cut off when one of the waitresses appears beside their table.

"Good morning, y'all.” She plops a couple of plastic covered menus in front of them. “I'm Mariah, and I'll be your server today."

She looks briefly over at Iris before smiling down at Barry. She tilts her head slightly, a little coyly, a sheet of glossy black hair brushing her shoulders. She's the type of woman who people will consider "too pretty for a place like this." She looks to be only a few years younger than Iris, in her mid-20s, all that pretty hair offset by a pair of sky-blue eyes in sun-tanned skin. She even looks good in her uniform, the fitted checkerboard shirt tucked into a pair of tight black jeans.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" She speaks only to Barry in a soft voice with just the barest southern lilt.

"Yeah, of course, Mariah." Barry leans forward, placing his arms on the table, a smile lifting his lips at the corner. "Can I get an orange juice for me and a large coffee for the lady?"

Her own smile widens and she nods. "Right away."

Mariah turns, quickly making her way back down the aisle. Iris looks back to see her hips swaying in the tight black pants, probably hoping that Barry is looking after her.

"So your fans aren't just delegated to Central City, I see."

His brows furrow. "What?"

"Our waitress didn't even look at me," Iris tells him. “Too busy grinning at you blinking those pretty eyes at her.”

He gives her the same half grin he just gave _Mariah,_ though it’s a bit deeper, something else tingeing the edges.

“You think my eyes are pretty, West?”

She bites at her lip. “That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“You’re right." She's about to breathe out in relief that they're moving on when he says, "We’re talking about your dating history.”

 _Of course._ “That is absolutely not what—”

“Sure it is,” Barry interrupts. “We were talking about all your jock boyfriends.” He tugs at his hair. “And I see you didn't grow out of it."

"What?" she questions. As far as Iris is aware, Barry doesn't know any of her ex-boyfriends. Although they follow each other on social media (a decision she had decided was a good one because of course she needed to be following all of Central City's news hotspots), neither of them are really in the habit of posting their significant others online. "You don't even know any of my exes after high school."

"The newspaper boy?" Barry scowls. "Scott?"

"Oh, yeah." Iris looks away briefly, playing with the hair at the nape of her neck that's fallen out of her bun. "Scott wasn't really my boyfriend."

"No? When I walked up on you at the gala, the energy definitely read ex."

"Scott and I were..." she waves a hand, thinking of the right word. She snaps and points at Barry, giving him a grin. "Sort of like you and that detective lady."

As if on cue, Barry darts his eyes, his cheeks reddening.

"You do that," Iris says, "whenever I mention her. Go all red and whatnot. What kind of shenanigans were y'all up to?"

"I-" Barry starts, but Mariah's presence brings their conversation to a pause. The younger woman drops Iris’s coffee in front of her, coffee spilling from the side of the large ceramic mug. Then, she sets a tall glass of orange juice down in front of Barry.

She frowns at the woman, mostly because she's decided she doesn't like her, but also because she's interrupted them, again, and Iris had been in the middle of trying to figure out if she was curious about Barry and the detective or agitated because they'd obviously been doing things that makes him go all red in remembrance. Their own brief dalliance hasn't seemed to bother him any. He's made no mention of it; he hasn't touched her, and he's barely even looked at her for longer than a few seconds at a time. He certainly isn't blushing at the memory of that and Iris cannot say how she feels. She'd been so unsure of how he'd react to her on this trip, how she'd respond to him, and it's nothing like her very little expectations. Iris is unused to uncertainty, has not met a situation she can not think through, and since they’d fallen out in their younger years, Barry has always upended her in this way. At least then, she was not plagued by the memory of his hands and his mouth and his eyes, all staring in dreams where she thinks she comes in her sleep.

Rolling her eyes, Iris watches as Mariah tosses her hair over her shoulder before wondering, "Can I get you anything to eat?"

They haven't actually had time to look at the menu yet, but Iris doesn't think asking this woman to give them more time would be beneficial, especially if it's coming from her and not Barry. She doesn’t have to worry about that, though, because Barry orders for them, remembering her coffee deprived order from earlier.

"Pancakes," Barry tells her. "Can we both get the pancake platter, mine with extra sausage and fried eggs, my girlfriend's with turkey bacon and scrambled eggs."

Mariah turns when she hears the word girlfriend, her eyes snapping to Iris. Iris beams at her, even as her eyes narrow, the girl's expression a bit challenging. Iris is mostly confused by the strong reaction, though maybe there's something about the way he's sitting—cool, calm, and way too collected—that lets her know his mouth is a goddamn miracle and she thought she'd get to try it out. Iris herself ignores that, as well as the flutter she’d felt in her belly when _girlfriend_ just rolled off his tongue.

When Mariah flounces off again, Barry turns back to her.

"You know she's probably going to spit in my food, right?" Iris mumbles.

"What?" Barry appears absolutely confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Did you really just miss all that?" Iris exclaims.

Per usual, her perceived ire makes him chuckle, and he takes a long swallow from his glass of orange juice. "Nah," he says. "I'm not as oblivious as you think I am, West."

"So you know she's going to spit in my food."

"It's not all that serious," he assures her. His grin widens. "Although you might not want to ask for another cup of coffee."

His laughter is loud and echoing, catching the attention of some of the patrons. She throws the packets of creamer she'd used in her coffee at him, and it sets him off again.

They keep conversation surface level as they wait for their food, mostly about what things they hope to get up to in Savannah. Iris knows that she wants to spend every morning on the beach, drinking coffee as she watches the waves. She knows her dad has several restaurants that are on his list of foods to try, including a couple different soul food places. Both Cecile and Linda have mentioned shopping; there's an outlet mall in a small town right outside of the city. Wally wants to take advantage of the downtown historic district, the bars and clubs, the live music and the open container laws that allow drinking in the streets. Barry is into that too.

The food is phenomenal, and Iris decides to trust that Mariah didn't actually spit in her food. As is his custom, Barry inhales his food, even eating a couple of pancakes from her stack that she can’t finish, and Iris eats at a slower pace, though she hurries so they can get back on the road. When a busboy comes to clear the table, Iris chugs the rest of her coffee and slips out to the restroom.

************

While Barry goes to pay, Iris heads outside to wait for him. It's still early so she curbs the urge to check in with her employees. Linda is probably up, readying for her flight, so she shoots a text, asking

_Iris: Have you and Barry been talking about me?_

Her response is immediate.

_Linda: Of course not._

And Iris knows with everything that she's lying. Iris scowls at her phone, but she doesn't type a response because this is a conversation she'd rather see Linda's face for.

She slaps her phone against her leg, just as Barry ambles out of the diner. The sun is higher in the sky that it was when they'd gone in the diner 40 minutes ago, warmer even, and Iris decides that is the reason she feels flush with heat all of sudden, and not Barry's slow, confident walk, his hands in the pockets of his too thin joggers, his hair all ruffled in the sun. He locks eyes with her as he moves to where she's standing against the driver's side door, the color nearly gray in the brightness.

What she knows she doesn't mistake is the path his eyes take before they meet hers, that assessing look he always gives her. She's in a pair of slides, the color a pale pink like the polish on her toes. She knows her leggings are tight, fitted to her hips, and a solid inch or two of her flat belly shows in the crop top. That look is there, the one she hasn't seen since he'd eaten her out, and she says thanks for the millionth time that her skin doesn't show the heat that makes her skin prickle.

"Ready to go?" he asks, when he is only steps away. She has to arch her neck to see into his face.

"Sure," she says. "But you should let me drive."

He tilts his head. "I should do what?"

"Let me drive," she repeats. She leans into him, ever so slightly. "Please."

"I'm not sure that that's a good idea."

"Come on, Allen," she pleads softly. “Just for a few hours. You can get a nap in, sleep off all that food you just inhaled."

"And what's in it for you?"

She smiles. "I get to drive this fancy car of yours."

He seems to think about, bringing one of his hands up to scratch at his chin. He moves even closer, until he's nearly standing against her. She can see the rise and fall of his chest, smell the soap on his skin, watch his tongue swipe slowly across his bottom lip.

"You'll be good to my baby?" he asks, voice lower than it has any need to be, deeper too, the sound of _baby_ like melted honey on his tongue.

She swallows, nods, asks all those unreliable deities for strength. He picks up her hand, fingers cradling the back of her hand. She hears the jingle of his keys, and then he places them in her hand.

"I mean it, West," he adds.

"I hear ya."

He drops his hand, palm grazing her side. There’s a quick squeeze to her waist, fingers grasping at her bare skin, and then he’s gone, turning to go around to the other side of the car.

It’s a second too long before she moves, a bit stuck after the encounter, but when he mutters “West,” and pointedly tugs at the door handle, she gets moving.

They settle on music before they pull off, since it’s a little later and there’s no longer reason to preserve the easy, quiet feel of the morning. The smooth cadence of J. Cole’s voice takes them back into the highway, _Okay the neighbors think I’m selling dope_ playing, the song the first in a rap playlist featuring Kendrick Lamar, Wale, and a few others of their caliber.

They’re quiet for a while, letting the music crowd the car, letting it ease her own thoughts. As much as she loves writing, and reading books too, music is her real escape. It helps her get out of her head, in the same way that boxing tries to do, and when she’s listening—to Cole talking about being racially profiled by his neighbors; to Sam Cooke singing about prisoners singing out their woes—her troubles seem so immaterial in the moment.

"So you never told me," Barry says, breaking their silence. She’d seen him texting on his phone a while ago, absently wondering with whom, but other than the occasional humming along to the music, they’ve both not spoken at all. 

"Told you what?" Iris glances over at him before turning her attention back to the road.

"About your college boyfriends."

She groans. "Are we still on that?"

"Yep," he says, popping the p. "I think it's important that couples talk about their past relationships."

“Yes, but we’re not a real couple.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Humor me.” 

"So that means you're gonna tell me all the gory details about you and the detective?"

It's Barry's turn to groan. "Why are you so caught up on her?"

"She's the only Barry girl I know about. Other than Becky Cooper in high school. The girl who tried to get me _expelled,_ because she thought I had written a bad article about you."

"She didn't try to get you expelled," Barry insists. "She was just...protective."

"I shudder to think about what you did for her to be so protective."

"She was merely passionate,” Barry says and Iris grimaces at the implication.

Barry keeps focus. “So college lovers, go!”

“Lovers, Allen?”

“Stop stalling.”

“Fine.” She taps her fingers against the wheel. “Not a lot of lovers. I quickly discovered that college boys were just as gross as high school boys but worse, because they no longer had boundaries. There was one sort of serious guy, Eddie, but we broke it off when he wanted to move to Star City and I didn’t.”

“You guys didn’t try long distance?”

“Eddie wanted to. But it didn’t make sense to try to prolong the inevitable.”

Barry nods. “What about recently? What happened with Scott?”

“Running a fledgling newspaper leaves very little time for dating. And Scott. Well Scott found me attractive, though not particularly smart.” She tries to keep the latent bitterness out of her voice. “So that ended before it really got off the ground.”

“Scott’s an idiot,” Barry says. “And a dick.”

“Agreed.”

They share laughs.

“So tell me about the detective now,” Iris urges. She switches lanes to get from behind an 18 wheeler, and then when she’s in front of it, she snaps to Barry. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Barry rubs at the back of his neck. “There’s nothing to be ready for. Patty was nice. She was just a little,” he pauses, tries to work his head around a word. “Aggressive.”

Iris lifts an eyebrow. “Aggressive?”

He waves a hand in faux dismissal. “Just into more things than I was into.”

“Wait, no. You gotta give me more than that.”

“There’s no more. That’s the end.”

“I don’t believe that. What was it? Did she want to tie you up?” Her voice goes low with glee. “Spank you?”

Barry is silent for a long second and Iris shoots him a quick glance. Barry’s staring back at her, a sort of gleam to his eyes, questioning.

“You came up with that pretty quickly.”

“What? I’m just—”

“Do you like to tie men up, West?”

“What! No, I—”

“Ohh,” he sings, interrupting again. “ _You_ like to be tied up?”

He turns toward her, just a little, leaning forward, just a little. He’s not touching her, but she feels _heat,_ tiny pricks of heat that seem to cover her entire body. She shudders at the phantom feeling, like his hands are on her, like his skin is pressing warm and solid against hers. He’s crowding her; _god,_ how is he crowding her when he’s on the other side of the car? But he is—he has to be doing it on purpose—and her skin tightens at the sensation, the rest of her like ice, melting at the notion.

“I can tie you up if you want me to, Iris,” he says and it shouldn’t feel like he’s whispering in her ear. “Even spank you if you’re into that.”

Before today, before this very moment, she was sure that she was not into that. Could swear on it probably. Someone hitting her? No thanks. But the image comes to her then, a couple different scenarios: Iris with her arms bound to a headboard, her knees spread wide as Barry kneeled in front of her; Iris bent over a desk in her office, skirt thrown up over her hips, her ass cheek stinging deliciously from his palm.

She startles out of it, jerking the car. Barry’s “are you okay?” is tainted with a smirk, more than a little knowing.

“Anyone else besides Becky and Patty?” she asks.

As subject changes go, it’s so blatant that Barry laughs as he settles back into his seat, allowing her a change in conversation. The tension eases a little bit.

“Not really. In college, there were a couple girls I dated but they all left when they saw how focused I was on graduating early; you want a committed boyfriend but it’s no fun when he’s canceling every date to study.”

Iris nods, understanding. “And after?”

He shrugs. “Still too busy. And far too noticeable.” He says it with the disgust automatic to his hatred of random people caring about what he does. “The Queens I am not and explaining to women that I’d rather stay in and watch a movie just got to be too much.”

“That sucks,” she says. “Oh, the woes of being handsome and famous.”

“Famous only in Central City,” he counters quickly. “But it’s nice to know you think I’m handsome.”

Iris glances at the sky before returning her attention back to the road. “You think so enough for the both of us. You certainly don’t need me to tell you.”

Barry grins. “But I love it when you do.”

Conversation stalls for another hour or so while Barry does get a quick nap in. When his gas light turns on, she finds an exit and then pulls into a large convenient store and truck stop right off of the highway. They still have a little less than halfway to go and Iris figures stocking up on a few snacks would keep them from having to stop to eat again and lose time.

She hops out of the car, leaving Barry to sleep, and goes inside. It’s one of those really nice convenient stores, with clothes and lots of food options and really clean restrooms. She takes the moment to use the restroom, a map on the wall telling her that they’re right outside of Greensboro in North Carolina. Finished, she ventures out into the store, grabbing up a couple bananas, a container of berries, a large bag of chips, and two bottles of water before taking it to check out and dropping it on the counter. The bored looking cashier, in a t-shirt bearing the logo of the store and hat pulled down so far she can barely see their eyes, rings her up. She’s in and out in about 10 minutes, but Barry is standing on the side of the car when she comes out. His hands are pushed into his jogger pockets and his hair is a little mussed, eyes squinted from incomplete sleep.

“Hey,” she says and she walks up to him. “Nice nap?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little scratchy. The sound glides down her back and she almost physically shivers.

“I got us some snacks. And we need to gas up.”

She hands him the plastic bag full of food and he takes it from her, fingers grazing her own. 

“I can gas up,” he offers.

“I got it,” she says, starting past him to get to the pump.

He stops her with a hand to her belly, her hip brushing against the front of him. She looks down briefly at his hands in her and then up to his face. His expression is unreadable.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just looking at you.”

He turns to put the bag in the car and then he’s gone, walking away and into the store. Iris shakes her shoulders and then plugs her card in the reader, pressing the button on Barry’s key to open the gas door. Moments later, when she’s set the gas to go and is leaning against the car, waiting, another car pulls up across from her. The man who gets out is very cute, the sort of good looking that’s homegrown, the sort she figures she’ll see the further south they get. He’s a big guy, tall and solid like he probably played football before he could walk, and his dark skin nearly _glistens_ in the sunlight. She’s staring, drooling probably because he really is, objectively—fine as hell—and then he turns to her. _Busted._ He doesn’t call her on her staring, though. Instead, he smiles, full lips curving over straight teeth, and lifts his hand in a wave. She’s about to return the gesture, a grin fixed on her face, when his expression drops.

And then Barry is beside her, she’d missed him rounding the other man’s huge F-150, and he’s looming next to her shoulder. She jumps, a bit startled by him, and he grabs at her waist to keep her from falling over the gas hose still attached to the car. He pulls her up against him, her body soft against the hard planes of him, straightening them against the car before they both fall over.

“You shouldn’t flirt with random men when your boyfriend’s around,” he says to her quietly.

“I wasn’t flirting,” she tells him, hoping to keep some semblance of control in her voice.

His fingers flex against where they are spread against her back and he throws a look back over her shoulder at the other man before nodding. “Of course not.”

He doesn’t let her go immediately and she’s not as quick as she likes to pull away. He’s had her in a whirlpool today, the comments that make her laugh mixed in with the ones that make scowl topped with the ones that make her feel like she’s burning from the inside. She wonders what it means that he’s got her all up in arms like this, that in every other aspect of her life, _she_ is the one who portrays calm and cool. But in regards to Barry Allen, she can barely hold on to herself, can rarely tell if she is coming or going or otherwise. There is no precedence for this, no rule book to follow for fake dating the man you’ve been in not-quite-hate with for years.

“We should get going, Bear,” she says, the unexpected nickname enough to pull him back.

“Right.”

He moves his hand slowly down the side of her hip and plucks the keys from her pocket. He squeezes at her waist again before he lets her go, moving around to get into the car. She finishes with the gas and slides into the far beside him.

Only five more hours.

***********

Iris is in awe as Barry drives into Savannah proper. They travel fairly slowly down a two lane street, tall moss trees running down the middle of the median. On either side of streets are tall, colorful houses, a mishmash of historical designs: Victorian styles, with balconies on each level overlooking the vibrant green grass; Colonial styles, Georgian and Federal, perfectly symmetrical, in soft muted colors like gray and navy. She's heard about the beauty of this city, but it is a bit shocking to see it in all of its glory like this.

"God, it's gorgeous," she mumbles, staring out of the window. She sees a few couples strolling down the sidewalks, a couple with dogs attached to long leashes. A group of teenagers are sitting on the porch of one of the houses, and all Iris can see is their wide grins as they pass by.

"Cisco told me that he came to Savannah once a couple years after undergrad for St. Patrick's Day. Apparently it could give Boston a run for its money."

Iris chuckles as she turns back toward him. He's trying to split his attention between the GPS which is leading them to the vacation rental her dad has chosen and trying to enjoy the scenery around them. They’ve not spoken much since their stop to get gas. He’d thrown on some science fiction audiobook and she’d taken out her laptop to work on an article she wanted to get to Allegra by Wednesday. It hadn’t been a necessarily uncomfortable silence, but she is surprisingly glad that it's no longer so quiet.

"If that's true, I can only imagine how much trouble he got into."

"Truly.”

They continue through the quaint street until they get to a bridge that will take them to Tybee Island where they are actually staying. It's a lovely view, the brilliant sun beating down over the gray blue waters.

The island is, if possible, even cuter. It is a typical beach town, two lane streets that implore drivers to keep an eye out for people darting across the street. The buildings are painted in light colored pastels, sherbert oranges and pale yellows, and coral pinks. She's always excited about these vacations, a chance to get away from Central City and spend some unfettered time with her family. With all that's been going on, she hasn't felt that same level of excitement that she usually does. It's back, though, in double doses, seeing this pretty town just out here for them to explore.

A couple miles in and they turn off to where they'll be staying for the week. 

"Fucking A," Iris mutters, looking at the white condo as they pull into the car she assumes her dad rented for the week. She steps out of the car almost before Barry comes to a full stop. The house has balconies jutting out from both floors, the one on the bottom more elaborate, both complete with furniture. She knows that there is a deck out back, both on the first floor and on the roof, and she also knows that her dad has already dedicated the night to a family barbecue. The house sits right on the beach, a guided path flanked by greenery right out onto the beige colored sand.

"This is nice," Barry mumbles as he exits the car, looking around. Iris figures the Allens have seen some beautiful properties, some beaches that are whiter and bluer and maybe even calmer. But he does look slightly amazed at the house and the view, and it makes her smile.

Her family must have been waiting for them outside because they all tumble out of the house just then. Linda's the first out, followed by Wally, and Brandon, the guy she remembers meeting at Elle's. She makes a note to ask him about that later, because there was no indication of this being a thing when they were there.

Linda reaches her first, immediately wrapping her arms around Iris's neck. Her short, floral print dress dances around her thighs, and Iris can already tell that she'll soon have to change out of the too warm clothes she's wearing. 

"Oh my god, Iris, this condo is _amazing_." She pulls her closer to the steps that lead down to the beach. "It's going to be an amazing week."

"Yeah?" Iris beams at her. "I'm really stoked."

"Yeah?" She shoots a quick glance behind her. "Even with the hot nerd accompanying?" 

"Linda..."

"I'm only asking." Linda raises her shoulders in a shrug. "How was the trip?"

“It was fine,” she says.

“Just fine?”

“ _Linda._ ”

They're saved from whatever they're probably about to start half arguing about when her dad ambles out of the house. Barry is talking to Wally and Brandon, but he stops and grins when her dad steps up to him, spreading his arms wide before wrapping the bigger man up in a hug. Her dad has always loved Barry, and she knows that they work in the same building and still have fairly regular contact, but it’s odd seeing them hugging so enthusiastically. It probably shouldn’t be—Joe West never stopped being fond of the enemy—but it feels like something different when he’s playing at her boyfriend. Already, she can tell of a deeper camaraderie, something that sits a little looser since he’s no longer branded as someone he can’t bring up when Iris is around. It brings to light what they’re doing, because only Linda knows this isn’t real and that means for the entire week, they’re going to have to be _on._

He moves away from Barry and walks down to her. Her dad is a handsome man, tall and commanding, an air about him that screams “I’ll do everything possible to keep you safe.” His deep chocolate eyes, same as hers, are set into smooth brown skin and the mustache and goatee he sports is peppered with gray. His hairline is receding, just a little, but he keeps it neatly tapered and it fits him, none of that mattering when he grins at her like he’s doing now. He’s traded his button down and tie for a button down and shorts, and he looks so relaxed that Iris beams right back at him.

“Hi daddy,” she greets as he steps toward her and she barely hears the “Hi, Pumpkin,” before she’s wrapped up in a hug of her own. She’s always been obsessed with her dad’s hugs, the full bodied wrap around where she tucks her head into his chest and inhales. He always smells like ink and clean laundry, the faint smell of coffee lingering on him, the other subtler, cleaner scent that’s just her dad underneath it all.

“How was your trip?” he asks, pulling away and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Good,” she says, snuggling under his arm. “Dating Barry doesn’t make him less annoying, but we only argued minimally.”

That gets Linda to snort and Iris shoots her a look, to which her friend only rolls her eyes.

“It’s amazing one of you hasn’t killed the other after all this time.”

“Only because we’re sure you’d still arrest us.”

Joe laughs heartily and then turns them so that they can start back towards the house.

“So I figured tonight we’d take it easy,” he says. “We picked up groceries on the way in. There’s a whole setup for grilling outback. We’ll throw some chicken on, Cecile has already started the marinade. And a few vegetables too.”

Iris lifts an eyebrow. “You’re eating vegetables willingly?”

“Cecile and Wally pretty much told him they’d hide the booze from him if he couldn’t eat his vegetables too,” Linda supplies.

“Speaking of which-” He tosses a look over her head at Linda. “I left your friend in charge of the alcohol which probably was a bad idea.”

Linda laughs loudly. “Oh don’t worry, Daddy West. I’ve thought of some cocktails themed for the week with only enough alcohol to make sure we are pleasantly buzzed most of the time.”

That makes her dad shake his head, a proper (and usually his only) response where Linda is concerned, and then they all pile back into the house.

The rest of them have already had time to come to terms with their home for the week, but Iris is in awe at their rental. It is a two story structure, though it looks a lot taller because of the high stilts the house is situated on. It looks a lot more massive inside than the relatively thin building makes it appear. The bottom floor features a living area and full kitchen and dining room. It is decorated simply but beautifully: gleaming hardwood floors running through the entire room, a massive beige sectional that could likely fit all 7 of them if they sit closely enough, and a large television mounted over a fireplace. It probably never gets as cold as it does in Central City, but she can imagine winter nights on the beach and the fireplace a romantic setting. The color scheme runs along the lines of beige and navy and chrome, appealing and natural, the blue showing up in the lamps sitting on the glass side tables and in the design of the near matching rugs in the the living room and the kitchen, in the place mats that sit on the dining room table. The kitchen has all chrome appliances, two ovens built into the wall, and Iris can see where Linda has set up mixers and alcohols beside the large two door refrigerator.

"Dad, you really went all out."

"With your brother finally out of the house, I've been able to save a lot more money." He winks and that gets a chuckle out of everyone but Wally who gives an indignant "hey!"

"Alright," her dad says. "We've all picked out rooms, but we've left one of the larger bedrooms to you and Barry."

"Which I still call unfair," Wally interjects.

"Well, they're older."

"Also unfair," he says, but Iris just sticks her tongue out at him and follows her dad upstairs.

It is only then that she notices Barry behind them. He's gotten their bags-his one large duffle and her small duffle and suitcase-and Iris catches briefly the way his arms bulge as he grips the bags and pulls them up the stairs. Now is not the time to be remembering the feel of his arms as they held her against his chest earlier, as he attempted to hold her down when his head was pressed between her thighs, so she turns away from him abruptly.

They continue down the hall as she half listens to her dad point out Wally and Linda's rooms, and then she steps into the room. Iris realizes exactly then that she is in truly deep shit. The room is stunning, a large space with a king-sized bed plopped right in the middle of one wall, the wooden headboard heavy and ornate. The white and navy bed furnishings look impossibly comfortable and even the shaggy matching rug seems like something she wouldn't mind sitting on. To the left of the bed is a door she assumes lead to the bathroom and to the right are a pair of large French doors that open out onto the balcony. It’s not particularly large, but there’s enough space for two wicker chairs and a circuit table. It all overlooks the beach, the waves pushing calmly against the sand.

“Can we move here?” Iris questions.

“Listen, it’s got my vote.” He gives her another kiss on the cheek. “I know y’all must be tired. We’ll give y’all some time to settle in and change. I’ll fire up the grill around 6." 

"Alright. Thanks, daddy."

He claps Barry on the shoulder and then he disappears out of the door, leaving the two of them alone.

They've been alone all day, trapped in his speeding car, trapped next to his heat and his scent and his presence. But that did not ready her for this, now, closed in a room that she's expected to spend an entire week sharing. The bed sits in front of them, a beacon, a light shining down on it, an image of them naked and writhing, her brown legs wrapped around his pale waist, his long fingers digging in her hair.

“Oh good Lord," she mumbles.

Barry, who she assumes is on the same page, comes to stand beside her. "We can make it through," he says. He's closer than she had realized, and she just keeps herself from jumping when he drops his arm on her shoulder. "You stay on your side, I stay on mine."

There is something faintly teasing about the tone of this statement, something like cheek imbued in the words. When she looks up at him, he is staring down at her too, blue-green eyes contradictingly playful and intense, something like desire swimming in them.

"Right," she breathes. "We're adults." The words come out slowly and she bites at her lip when he doesn't turn away from her. 

"Exactly," he agrees. "Nothing happens that we don't want to." Then he presses a kiss to her temple and winks at her before slinking away.

"I’m gonna take a shower,” he calls back over his shoulder.

Iris watches as he picks up his duffel bag and heads to the bathroom, not looking back at her at all. She moves to the bed and falls back on it, staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh good Lord," she murmurs again.

************

When Iris opens her eyes, she's in the room alone. It’s quiet, though she can hear the murmur of the voices of her family downstairs. A quick check to her watch tells her it’s after 6 and she also notes a message from Barry on the screen telling her they’re all out back when she wakes.

She takes the time to shower and change. She moisturizes her face, lotions her body, and then throws on a pale yellow maxi dress, liking the v-neck and spaghetti straps, her thin gold necklace not taking away from the brown button detail running down the front. She unites her braids, letting them hang loose, and then slips her feet into a pair of sandals before making her way downstairs.

She hears Cecile and Linda first, their voices carrying from the kitchen. They’ve both put on comfortable dresses as well, and Cecile is adding various vegetables to skewers while Linda is putting ice into the 7 cups she’s got laid out in front of her.

“Oh, hey Iris,” Cecile greets her first, white smile brightening her russet brown skin. “How was your nap?”

“Hi, Cecile.” Iris hops up on a chair at the island across from them. "It was good. I didn’t even realize I was tired.”

“Yeah, car travel can be like that.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“No, I’ve pretty much got it all set up. Your dad and Barry are manning the grill, and it’ll soon be ready to start putting food on.”

She nods, though a little surprised that Barry is joining him. On the counter, there is a pan of seasoned meat, some chicken legs and chicken wings, next to another pan of baked beans, and a platter of sliced vegetables--zucchini, squash, onion and bell pepper--waiting for the skewers. Her stomach growling reminds her that she and Barry have only eaten a couple snacks since breakfast.

“Well you can help me,” Linda says. “I won’t be able to carry all these outside.”

Linda is pouring liquid from several bottles into the cups she’s got lined up. Other than the tall glass bottle of vodka, Iris doesn’t recognize any of the other juices. She probably should, since Linda has considered herself an amateur bartender since high school, but she doesn’t, and she’s slightly frightened of what it might do to them all.

“Um, sure,” Iris says and Linda throws a look at her. 

“What? What’s that look?”

“Just excited to try it.”

Linda throws her middle finger up and Iris copies her, both of their fingers up until Cecil mutters, “Ladies,” without looking at them. Her giggles take her outside with three cups fixed in her hand.

She reaches her brother and his friend first, sitting at one of the few tables scattered out on the deck.

“Hi guys,” she says, placing two of the drinks in front of them. “I haven’t tried them, so I don’t know what they’re like, but here you go.”

Brandon grins at her, a rather handsome smile, one that seems to deepen when he turns it to her brother.

She places a hand on her brother’s shoulder, leaning down to whisper, “I thought I was the only one with a secret boyfriend.”

He leans back, eyes wide. “I was going to tell you. We’re still figuring it out.”

“I told him to tell you,” Brandon interjects and Wally turns to scowl at him.

“We’ll talk later, little brother,” Iris mutters, laughing.

She moves over to where her dad and Barry are standing by the grill, looking as if they’re doing more staring at it than anything else.

“Look who’s up,” her dad says as she stops by Barry. 

“I don’t know the last time I slept in the middle of the day,” she admits.

“Well, you work too hard,” Barry says, dropping a hand over her shoulder to bring her closer. “I say you take a nap everyday this week.”

The scene is so strangely domestic that Linda raises an eyebrow at her as she walks over with drinks for Barry and her dad. Barry takes his, but doesn’t let her go.

“Well, I agree with Barry.”

“Of course you do, dad. You always agree with Barry.”

Barry grins, leaning down to whisper against her ear, “jealous?”

She reaches up and punches his side.

“Ow!”

Both Linda and her dad stare at them, though it’s Linda that speaks first.

“Whatever weird kinky thing y’all have got going on, maybe not in front of Daddy West.”

Her dad holds his hand up to the sky. “Amen.”

They spend the evening in good spirits. Once the food gets going on the grill, and the drinks get flowing, the vibe gets lighter and lighter. Wally tells them about some grad school antics he and his smarty pants friends have been up to. Linda and Iris talk about a few of the articles they’re working through. Cecile and Joe laugh about some of the more colorful people they’ve arrested and tried; Brandon engages them all in a rousing game of would you rather?

The entire time, though, Barry is by her side. She knows he’s merely playing the part, but it’s off-putting, how rich his attention is on her. He refills her cup when she needs it, fixes her a plate before she even thinks to do it herself, grabs her a water when she nearly chokes at Linda whispering dirty jokes in her ear. He touches her too, the kind of touches that are blazing in their simplicity, the sort of touches that imply a long, romantic history, the kind that speaks to comfort and ease. There are quick squeezes of her waist, his fingers grazing her leg when he sits beside her for dinner. He sits facing her, legs spread wide on either side of her, and he keeps a hand on her as he laughs at Brandon and talks with Wally, only making conversation with her every now and again. It is like at his parents house, at the bar, his attention seemingly diverted as he touches her unknowingly. 

Linda watches them like a hawk, but Iris is too busy keeping her reactions at bay where Barry is concerned that she has no energy for her friend. When Barry hops up to get them both another drink, placing a kiss to her temple, Linda merely grins.

After dinner, they all decide to have a final drink down on the beach to watch the sunset. It’s only minutes after 9, so they still have a while to watch the sun's descent. Barry carries a heavy towel in one shoulder as he leads them all to the beach, his hand gripping hers. They spread out a bit, couples taking a few moments to be alone, Linda placing her towel down closer to the water.

Iris settles between Barry’s legs and he closes the distance between them until she’s leaning against his chest. He takes a swallow from his cup and then sets it in the dirt beside him. She does the same. Linda always makes drinks that taste more like juice than anything else, and she’d pleasantly buzzed, enough that Barry’s hands on her are welcome, the easy glide of his fingers up and down her calves just as calming as the view in front of her. The sky is breathtaking, very faint purple mixing with the brilliant yellow-orange, just the hint of pink and blue throughout. It seems so indulgent, sitting and watching the sunset when there’s definitely things that can be done, but she needs it in a way that she didn’t understand until this very moment.

“You’ve been a very attentive boyfriend today,” Iris says.

His fingers still on her thighs and she feels his eyes on her. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she mutters truthfully. “Just making an observation.”

He nods, and then begins tracing along her legs again, writing words she can never quite figure out. 

“Well, Joe and Cecile have never seen us as a couple. I wanted to make it believable.”

“I think that you and your touches are believable.”

He hums, resting his head against hers. “You’ll let me know,” he whispers above her ear. “If I make you uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

She hears Cecile laugh at something her dad says. Linda’s in front of them, talking on the phone in hushed tones. Brandon and Wally aren’t talking much, Wally’s head in Brandon’s lap as they stare out at the sky over the water. Barry and Iris follow that lead, quiet as they watch the sunset, his hands a constant on her, Iris snuggled into him. The countering feelings she’s experienced today give way to an unexpected peace. Nature does that, she thinks (and some of the vodka too), making them all seem so small, making them all look on in awe. She allows it, because sometimes it’s easier to just let it be whatever it is. Sometimes it’s easier to let Barry be nice to her, even when she knows that he’ll say something to rile her, say something that reminds her of their still too tense relationship; even when she knows he could easily leave her again.

So when Barry presses his lips to the shell of her ear, she decides to play along for the remainder of the trip. After all, it’s what he's here for.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! A literal month later and I'm back. I'm still not 100% on this. It feels more like a filler chapter, a very long filler chapter, but one nonetheless.  
> So I am a bit nervous about your thoughts because this took so long and it got a bit away from me. I do hope that you find some parts you enjoy and if you do, drop me a kudos and/or a comment. Y'all know I'm actually obsessed with y'all and the comments you leave me so drop me one!  
> AND Barry's POV chapter is next!
> 
> Per usual, thank you thank you so much for sticking with me during this fic. Y'all are who are getting me through all the hate in this world right now.  
> (And sorry for all typos! I think I got most of them, but I think I was tired of looking at the chapter again.)
> 
> Elle <3


	8. VIII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry has some feels and, god bless his heart, he's losing his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are over 11,000 words to apologize for how long I took to write this.

_VIII._

_No, I don't wanna fall in love; No, I don't wanna fall in love, with you_

Barry is cooling down from his four mile run when he spots Iris sitting on the beach. From where he’s walking, all he can see is her wrapped in a soft-looking sweater, her legs bare, the expanse of smooth brown skin causing him to come up short. He eases to a trot as he nears her, trying to steel himself for the conversation.

He’d taken the run to clear his head—or more accurately to avoid the awkwardness he was sure would be true when she’d woken up to realize she was sprawled half atop him, her face snuggled into his chest, her leg thrown over his, her hand on his lower belly, much closer to where he’d been ready for her.

He remembers the night before in startling detail, her body beneath his hands as they’d sat talking to her family, the sound of her laughter as she’d laughed at dirty jokes from Linda, her back pressed into him as they’d say on the beach, her allowing him run of her skin in the warm night.

After the sunset, she’d been half asleep as she’d leaned against him on the way back to their room, the long day of travel, the good food, and boozy drinks taking its toll. Inside, she’d detached herself from him, walking into the bathroom and shutting the door and coming out in a pair of tiny shorts and a tank top. He’d short-circuited for a moment. There is something distinctly intimate about seeing a woman in the clothes she sleeps in, and these—black and white striped shorts that barely covered her ass, a matching thin-strapped tank top that did very little to hide her dark nipples pushing through the fabric—had Barry 100% certain that he would not make it through the week.

She’d climbed into bed after tying a black silk scarf around the edges of the braids she’d piled on top of her head and Barry had gone for his turn in the bathroom. When he’d slid into the bed beside her, in just a pair of pajama pants, sans shirt, she’d given him a long, slow once over—one that had made his face flush and his pulse go erratic and his sex throb against his thigh—and then promptly turned away from him and fallen asleep.

Their sharing of the bed would have been anticlimactic. Except Barry was aware of every movement she made, every sound, every single shift in her body. He knew when she’d gotten deep in her sleep, her soft, even breathing like white noise in the too quiet room. He’d felt when she’d turned to him, pulling some of the comforter from him and replacing it with her own body, curling herself into him.

He wishes he could have woken up to her, but Barry is unsure of where they stand, the hot and cold she gives off. Sometimes she is pliant under his touch; the memory of her scent in his nose and her taste in his mouth is one he’ll go to his grave thinking about. Everything about that night is still in his head in vivid technicolor: the sounds she’d made when he’d tongued her clit, those low moans and soft sighs; the look of her spread out before him, hair tousled and skin flushed, her skin practically glowing in that dark room. The how of it still makes no sense, that she’d let him go so far. And every time she lets him touch her, lets him trail his fingers along the soft skin on her back, lets him squeeze gently at her waist, he allows himself to revel in it because he knows that it’s only a matter of time before she pulls back from him. 

Because other times, she is aloof, combative. She uses her words to push him until they’re arguing in the middle of a crowded room and Barry has the unfortunate task of having to figure out if the flush in his face has to do with the ire only she seems to bring out of him or something deeper, something dirtier.

Barry has been thinking about all of that, since the night she let him eat her out in his parents’ house. Whatever signals Iris gives him, the up and down of it all, he knows— _he knows—_ that she wants him, sexually at least. Her body responds to him, even when her eyes won’t hold his stare and she fixes her mouth to argue with him. It makes him think that maybe he could convince her that it wouldn’t be so wrong to give them a chance, to be like they once were but _more,_ friends and lovers and something altogether deeper. He’ll have to play a long game. For her, last night had been about good food, better drinks, and the calming feel of family that had settled her in his arms. It could be more, he thinks—he _hopes_ —but it’ll have to be insidious, easing her into something she won’t want to walk away from. 

Since they were teenagers engaged in relative combat, he’s been trying to worm his way back into her good graces. Any steps he makes, though, are met with a suspicious eye, her pretty mouth twisted in a snarl. He knows that he can’t exactly blame her because he knows that _he_ is to blame for a big part of the dissolution of their friendship. Since he’s come back after college, his interactions with her have been relegated to their jobs. More often than not, she prefers to work with Cisco or Caitlin if it means that she doesn’t have to talk to him. So he’s been watching her from the sidelines: staring at her strutting into their lab in those too tight skirts she somehow gets away with wearing and those too tall heels he can’t see how she walks in, her painted mouth explaining connections in cases that his science brain cannot always pick out, proving to him that Iris has always been so much smarter than anyone has ever given her credit for. 

It is through these non-interactions that he decided on this fake dating ruse. Initially, he’d thought that if she could just see him at his best, when he’s charming and dashing and trying to do some things for the good of mankind, she might let her guard down a little, might see that’s not quite who he used to be. He had no plans for what might have happened after the gala; he’d just been hopeful. Her request to prolong their dalliance had seemed like a stroke of good luck, until he’d seen the why.

After their talk at Jitters, when she’d talked about news outlets and their commentary on their relationship, he had gone to read the articles. Very few focused on the amazing work she and her team are doing at the _Citizen_ , the hard-hitting news articles that are filled with humor and heart, making their subjects real and nuanced. Instead, they’d been about how she looked, some way too complimentary for his tastes, others so hate-filled that it’d made him sick. He’d known abstractly how much his celebrity is due to the fact that he’s rich, the fact that he’s white. He’d known that there were people who still believed in the ways of the not so old. But the blatant hate Iris had received from people who don’t know her, the racists= diatribes about the shape of her body in the dress that “revealed too much,” the claims of Barry’s supposed jungle fever, the accusations that Iris has latched onto him to get at his money, to further her career...well, it’d made Barry aware of a reality that he’s ashamed to say he’d never thought too deeply about. Even if he wasn’t in love with her, he’d want to stand by her side for this, to step up for her. He can see her wish to make sure that when it comes to the award show, her work is the focus. Those articles will get them to view her page; her work will get them to stay. And Barry will do what he can to negate any ill will toward her. He’s glad that he can help her. And despite the origins of the circumstances, he is glad that he gets this time with her.

Now, Iris looks up at him when he’s only steps away from her. He sees the coffee cup she’s clutching in her hand, her slim, pale pink painted fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug. He takes stock of the rest of her, the braids that make her look like some sort of goddess still up, her dainty feet digging into the sand, the legs he keeps picturing thrown over his shoulder bare.

She gives him a look he cannot fully comprehend, one that makes him shift and go a little bit red behind the ears, and he drops down beside her in the sand because that’s all he can think to do. She’s quiet for a long moment and he takes the time to calm down after his run, to figure out what he wants to say to her. The sun has already crested the sky, but the colors are still soft, beautiful against the waters that haven’t quite woken up yet. His breathing slows as he lies by her, propped up on his elbow, chancing glances at her as she stares out at the water, periodically sipping her coffee. 

It’s amazing, Barry thinks, how someone can be so effortlessly gorgeous. She’s sitting here, face bare, hair piled on top of her head, in pajamas, and Barry finds himself a little out of breath. She’s always been the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, ever known; he was aware of this even when other boys thought girls were gross, when they laughed at them and wanted to tug on their pigtails and put up clubhouses with “he-man woman hater’s club” painted on the outside. For Barry, though, Iris had always been his definition of beautiful, even before he understood why he reddened when she laughed a lot more loudly than one of his jokes warranted or when she’d wrap her arms around him in a hug before she left with her dad to go home after dinner. It’s probably how she got him to jump out of trees and why he’d lost every game they’d ever played together. It’s probably why, even when she was 16 and nagging at him about even saying a word to her, the red in his cheeks had just as much to do with anger as it did with the heavy feeling in his stomach, the even heavier one that had his sex tightening and lengthening in his pants.

“You’re staring, Allen,” she mumbles, though she doesn’t look at him. He sees her fingers clutch at her mug. “What gives?”

A pang of embarrassment rushes through him, but Barry is used to that where Iris is concerned, so he switches approaches. He leans towards her, enough that she could reach out and sink her fingers in his hair if she wanted, that he could press a kiss to the outside of her thigh if he wanted.

“I’m just enjoying the view,” he tells her, because it’s true, because he’ll always want to stare at her if she’s there.

She turns to him, then, a half smile tugging at one corner of her full mouth.

“Were you always this much of a flirt, Barry Allen?”

“Flirt?” He licks his lips and leans even closer, giving in to the urge to run a knuckle down her calf. She doesn’t make any overt movements but he can feel the way the muscles in her legs tense under his hand. “I’m merely telling the truth.”

“Hmmm,” she hums and glances down at where his hand is still touching lightly at her skin. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“There are no other girls, West.”

Her eyes snap to his, the dark irises like molten whiskey in the soft morning sun, her plump pillow-soft lips slightly parted. Barry can never make out what she’s thinking when she’s looking at him, except of course when her eyes are flashing in frustration or anger,

(or when there’s a very faint red tint to her brown skin because she’s wet and dewey from his tongue and his mouth and his hands, her eyes otherwise flashing with something that keeps Barry up at night, stroking and pulling on himself)

and right now her face is just on the other side of the blank as she gazes at him.

“I bet you tell them all that too.”

She stands, before he can fix his mouth to respond, and then nods toward their rental. “Come on. I want more coffee and we’ll probably all be getting ready soon.”

As far as Barry knows, they’re staying on the island for the day, eating and exploring and spending some time on the beach. They walk into the house together, Barry following behind Iris and the sweet scent of her. Everyone is lounging around in the front room, Joe and Cecile both drinking coffee at the kitchen island, Wally, Brandon, and Linda sprawled out on the couch watching _The Golden Girls._ Barry frowns momentarily at the choice, but shrugs as he follows the woman in front of him to the kitchen. 

“Hey, kids,” Joe greets them both as Cecile smiles at them. Barry sees Iris start for the coffee machine and he grabs the mug from her hand, waving her over to the island. He watches her move to kiss both her dad and step mom on the cheek before she sits down. Barry busies himself with pouring her another cup of coffee, adding almond milk and a little cinnamon too. He grabs a glass of water for himself.

“What are we doing today, dad?” she asks.

Joe takes a sip from his own coffee mug. “We’ve got a dolphin tour at 11:30. I thought we could have breakfast here at the house, we picked up some muffins and fruit. And after the tour, I say beach until we’re sun soaked and ready for a late lunch/early dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Iris smiles. “I’m ready to see the dolphins.”

Cecile grins at her. “We’ll put out the muffins and fruit, get dressed at our leisure, and be ready to go by 11 or so?”

“Yeah, that works.”

Joe and Cecile work together to quickly throw some packaged muffins into a large bowl, and they pull another bowl filled with the fruit left over from the night before onto the table. When they walk out of the kitchen, Barry moves to sit Iris’s mug in front of her and, because he can’t help himself, he plants a kiss at her temple, dropping a hand to her thigh as he sits beside her. He tries not to look down at where her skin is bare beneath his palm, at the pajamas that her sweater barely covers. When he’s back home, he’s sure those tiny shorts will star in every single dream he has of her, picturing himself pulling the silky looking fabric down her silky thighs and burying his face in her silky pussy.

_God, help him._

“Barry,” her voice calls, and he blinks back into the room. He gives Iris all of his attention as she leans forward and palms his cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Sorry, I spaced a minute.”

“You sure?”

The concern in her whiskey brown eyes make him smile at her. He squeezes her thigh. “I feel like you’re starting to care, West.”

Predictably, she rolls her eyes at him and attempts to turn away. He stops her with another squeeze to her thigh, one at her waist when he turns to face her fully.

“You can’t keep running, West.”

It isn’t what he’d meant to say. He’d had a plan—and by plan, he means a vague idea of how not to fuck it all up—but it’s what comes out. 

She stills, takes in an overly deep breath, and starts fingering the handle of her mug. He waits, let’s her think, watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, wonders absently what she uses to make her skin so soft.

“What am I running from exactly?”

“Me,” is the automatic answer, because there is no way that she doesn’t understand what he means. 

Her eyes widen, and her lips part slightly. The slew of emotions running across her face range from confusion to scared shitless to something else Barry can’t name, and she doesn’t say anything as she jumps up, nearly toppling her chair in the process. She takes her unfinished coffee over to the sink to toss it, and Barry waits only seconds before he gets up to follow her. 

He catches her as she turns, probably to walk—nay, _run_ —out of the room. He doesn’t touch her, waiting until she presses herself against the sink and places a hand on the sink beside her. He doesn’t actually know what to say (because if he’s honest, he never really does when he’s around her) but he knows that saying the wrong thing right now would probably have her shouting at him and running even further.

So he doesn’t say anything. He closes in on her, catching her gaze and holding it, moving until he’s pressed lightly against her. She breathes in, a soft inhale, and Barry chances a hand at her hip. This is the only thing she allows him, this proximity. Rarely does she move away from the electric pull that exists between them, not since the first time he’d tasted her mouth at the gala. He knows that this, this physical attraction between them isn’t her problem with him. He knows that it is the years of taunts and teases, the not so light-hearted jabs between them. He also knows that there is something else deeper that keeps her away from him, something he’s still trying to dig into her to figure out. But _this,_ if nothing else, Barry knows will get her to pause for him, at least momentarily.

“I’ll get you to stop running,” he whispers, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. But that’s about as much warning as he gives her before he leans down and kisses her. 

Barry thinks that everything in the world fades when he’s kissing Iris West. It is positively cataclysmic; the stars align, the sun and the moon cross paths, fucking planets explode. She tastes decadent, like cake or double fudge brownies or something covered in butterscotch. She never hesitates to kiss him back, opening her mouth so he can taste, so he can devour her, so he can try to burrow his way inside her mouth, her body. So he can find a way to settle inside her heart. 

He lets her touch him first, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her fingers grasping at the hairs at the nape of his neck. He stifles the groan that wants to escape as he plunders, nipping at her lips, sucking on her tongue, holding on to her hips because he can’t get enough of her. He clutches at her, one hand straying to the curve of her ass. She does moan, then, the sound low in her throat, the sound so electric it’s like it’s connected to every part of him. Barry thinks that he vibrates with it, his muscles tense, his hands shaking, his body pulsating with the need to claim her.

“My fucking eyes,” he hears Wally from somewhere behind him followed by Brandon’s amused chuckle. Barry breaks the kiss reluctantly, slowly, although he doesn’t step away from her yet as he looks back at Wally. Her arms drop from his neck, but she keeps one small hand at his chest, clutching lightly at the fabric.

“Y’all really have to stop doing that,” Wally says. “I’m too young to die of a heart attack.”

Brandon rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’s why you’ll die. Plus, I think they’re cute.”

Wally shakes his head but he doesn’t say anything in response to that. Iris wiggles from his grasp, stepping to the side of him.

“You’re being dramatic,” Iris says to Wally and there is a bit of tremble in her voice that Barry would not have heard if he hadn’t looked for it. She starts to walk away, but Barry grabs at her wrist, and she stops, only half turned away from. He stares at her for a long moment, and she stares back at him too, her white teeth biting into her plump bottom lip. He wants to pull out the elastic holding her hair down and lay her out on a bed with her hair, her arms, her legs spread like a buffet before him. He wants to take her somewhere that only the two of them know about, where he can feed her with his hands and he can figure the things this Iris likes, and how much she’s truly changed from the fierce and argumentative girl he once knew her as.

“Should we leave?” Brandon wants to know, and that seems to break the hold.

“No,” Iris says quickly. “I was just going to go get dressed.”

She pulls her arm away from him and disappears around the corner, not giving him a second glance. Feeling a bit defeated, Barry shakes his head and rubs a hand at the nape of his neck.

“It still makes no sense that you two are together,” Wally mumbles, picking up a blueberry muffin from the stack and examining it before putting it down and grabbing a banana nut muffin instead.

Barry won’t say out loud that maybe he agrees.

************

Hours later, Barry finds himself on the beach in a pair of simple black swim trunks, laying out on a large towel half covered in sand, a beer pushed in the ground beside him, Wally and Brandon are lying on a towel on the other side of his beer. Iris and Linda are in the house on a video conference with Allegra and Kamilla, and Joe and Cecile are a little further on the beach, Cecile reading, Joe interrupting her every few pages. 

Barry has a new book by Professor Stein that he hasn’t had a chance to open because he’s presently listening to Wally and Brandon in a confusing conversation that follows no particular thought pattern. They’d talked about school for a bit, their work in the labs they’re doing research in, and then they’d segued into a conversation about comics, about what DCTV is doing that the DC movieverse apparently hasn’t figured out yet. He interjects when he’s interested, though he does more people watching than anything.

The beach is packed. Barry knows that there are several colleges in Savannah and the beach is reflecting that, carefree students on vacation, playing games, drinking from glass bottles they grab from overly large coolers, laughing loudly as they chase each other into the water. He’s got a space for Iris ready beside him and anticipation coils at the thought of spending more time with her.

They’d spent their morning with the dolphins. After their kitchen kiss, Iris had seemed a little bit like she was in her own head, and Barry let her be, only holding on to her hand and dialing back on the flirting. She’d seemed to come back to him—come back around, rather—when they'd been standing on the boat watching the dolphins. It’d been so goddamn endearing that Barry had almost had to pull a “be still, my heart,” watching her light up at the dolphins nudging her hand with their noses. It’s been years since he’d seen her excited like that, her grin wide, her eyes sparking, squealing as she clutched at his hands.

He remembers going to the zoo with her, Joe, and Wally once when they were little kids. Wally had been about 5, and seeing that light in her eyes had been a sight. She’d spent the entire car ride there lamenting about the fact that animals shouldn’t be in cages, which Barry can still understand, but she’d loved looking at the animals, watching in awe as they went about their days, sometimes interacting with their spectator, most times not. She’d been enamored, wanting to get as close to them as she could, and it’d shown a fearlessness that had been such a part of her makeup that it was probably the day Barry decided he loved her. That feeling had returned today as he watched her, strengthening his resolve to make her fall in love with him too.

“Y’all are so boring.”

Barry blinks up at Linda after she makes that sweeping statement, frowning up at her with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Her orange bikini leaves a lot of her on display, which he figures is on brand for a single woman on vacation. She looks good, though, except for the glower she’s giving them. When she looks at Barry, though, giving him a quick look over, she winks at him and Barry’s ears flames, even though he knows she just does that to fuck with him.

“We’re just lying here,” Wally mumbles.

“Exactly, Baby West. It’s the beach and it’s a _vacation.”_ She shakes her head. “I’m looking for some fun.”

“Most of the people on this beach are our age or younger,” Brandon tells her.

“But there are some who are not and that’s who I’m looking for. I know somebody brought their big sisters out to play.”

“Every year I try to get you disinvited,” Wally says.

“And every year it fails to work.”

“Linda, do you and Wally have to do this every year?” Iris’s voice sounds from behind Linda, and then she steps around her. And Barry stops breathing. He thinks he hears Linda say, “of course we do, it’s tradition,” but he can’t truly tell much over the roaring in his ears.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think about the fact that Iris plus beach plus hot southern city meant that he’d have to stare at parts of her he’s never seen before. Compared to Linda, her suit might be considered modest, but Barry can’t think of anything sexier. The black bottoms are high enough that they cover her belly button, but there are bright sunflowers on them that hug her hips, showing the deep curve of her waist and legs that seem so long for someone who’s not tall. Her top ties around her neck, barely covering her breasts fully, and Barry decides he’s absolutely going to lose his mind before all this is over.

He watches as she shakes her head at her brother and best friend, tossing her hair over her shoulder before looking at him. Her eyes travel over the length of him, several times, and he knows that he reddens under her gaze, the heat in her eyes unmistakable. It’s _that_ look that makes Barry believe he’s got a chance, that makes him believe that there is more behind what she doesn’t say.

“Come help me scout,” she hears Linda say, presumably to Wally and Brandon because Iris doesn’t turn away from him. “These two are gonna make sex eyes at each other the whole time and I don’t need to be here for that.”

It shouldn’t be possible, but Barry thinks he reddens even more, and when he takes a moment to look up at Linda, she grins and gives him another wink before leading Brandon and Wally away.

“Come here,” Barry says to Iris, when he can finally speak again. 

She lifts an eyebrow and doesn’t move; Barry shakes his head, amused. “Do you always have to be contradictory?”

She pretends to think about it. “Well…”

“Well then go sit as far away from me as possible.”

Her eyes narrow at him and he stares back, mouth lifted in a half grin, his eyes trailing her skin. He holds out his hand for her, and she waits a beat before she takes it, dropping down onto the towel in front of him. He pulls her closer, until she’s pressed against his chest, her skin still a bit cool from the air conditioning. She crosses her legs as she sits, and he rests one of his arms on his knee propped up beside her; the other he wraps around her so his hand is splayed against her belly. He hears the soft breath she takes, her body tensing slightly. Barry leans down, places his lips next to her ear.

“Relax, Iris. You know you can tell me when to stop touching you.”

That he means. He never wants to make her feel uncomfortable, to do anything she doesn’t want him to do. So when he feels the tension start to leave her body and her hand cover where he’s holding on to her, he smiles.

They’re quiet for a long moment, and Barry tries to think back to a time when comfortable silences for them had been the norm. Right after her mom’s death comes to mind, those long moments they’d lie out in his backyard and just be silent. Maybe it hadn’t been comfortable exactly. Barry had always wanted to do more for her, say something that’d make her laugh or, at the very least, put a spark in her eyes for longer than a second. He hadn’t (and still doesn’t) understand the pain of losing a parent. He hadn’t known what to say to her for a long time, even months after when she’d go into sudden spells of silence. So he’d try to just be with her, make her laugh when he could, hold her hand when she’d let him, merely sit with her otherwise. After, though, when they’d drifted apart, any time alone with her had resulted in a silence that was tense and strained, one marred by anger and hurt.

So it feels nice to be with her like this. It gives him some hope. If she’s becoming comfortable with him, it means she’s getting used to him again, that she doesn’t mind his company again, that maybe her first instinct is not always to _react_ to him. Maybe it means that she’s starting to feel something for him too.

“How was your video conference?” he wonders, a while later. 

“It was good,” she tells him. “Allegra and Kamilla are great, and I think checking in with them so often is more annoying than helpful.”

Barry lifts his shoulders in a shrug that she can’t see. “There’s nothing wrong with caring about your newspaper.”

“No,” she says. “But they’ve all been there since the beginning and, honestly, they do just as much as I do.”

“Then take pride in the fact that you’ve got great people working for you, and _relax._ ”

“Fine,” she huffs, as if the notion is absurd. “How do you suggest I relax?”

“That’s a good question,” he murmurs. He drops his knee and places a hand on her thigh. Her skin is soft, hot to touch, and Barry takes a moment to revel in the feel of it under his hand. He starts to move, tracing letters into her thigh, _barry loves you_ , as he goes upward, _you are mine_ when he comes back down. Her legs are still crossed, thighs spread for him, and if he were brave enough, he would tip his fingers down to her sex, would see if his hands on her are starting to make her warmer, wetter. 

He doesn’t, though. Instead he just tells her what he can’t say, what she probably wouldn’t even believe if he could. He writes it a few times, up and down, starting at her knees and stopping _right_ at the juncture of her thighs before returning the way he came.

“I know another way that you can relax.”

“Yeah?”’

He hums a yes.

“And what’s that?”

“You’ve got ten seconds to run,” he says into her ear, and even Barry knows the way he’s half whispering, dipping his voice, is cheating; it has little to do with his intentions—for the moment.

“Run from?” she wonders, her own voice light, a bit throaty.

“Me,” he tells her. “I’m gonna count to ten and if I catch you, I’m gonna toss you into the ocean.”

Iris freezes, and Barry hears her huff out a noise like a laugh. “You wouldn’t.”

He gives her thigh a squeeze. “10, 9…”

“Wait, you can’t just start counting.”

He kisses her cheek. “8, 7…”

“Damnit, Barry,” she grumbles, and then she shoots up and takes off towards the ocean.

“6!” Barry yells, laughing, and then he jumps up to follow after her.

Barry likes running, and his legs are significantly longer than Iris’s, so it only takes him a few strides to catch up with her.

“You’re too slow,” he says from behind her, and Iris squeals. “No, Barry!”

He lets her feet touch right at the edge of the water and then he scoops her up, holding her at her waist as he runs with her into the ocean. She’s screaming swear words at him as he throws her, but there is laughter in her voice right as she goes under. He follows her, grabbing at her leg just so he can hear her screech. They play, Iris half heartedly trying to swim away from him and Barry chasing after her, dunking her when he manages to catch her. At one point she gets the jump on him, diving deeper until he can’t see her and then jumping on his back from behind. 

His hands immediately reach for her thighs when she does, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him. She’s breathing heavily, he is too, and he walks them back to the shore.

“Jump down,” he tells her.

When she does, he doesn’t let her hand go. Instead, he sits down on the ground, right where the water laps at his feet, and pulls her to him.

“What?”

“Come sit down.” He pats his lap for her.

She looks around, eyes darting to see who’s around them. “My dad is right there.”

Barry shakes his head. “Your dad has been half asleep since we’ve been out here. Come on. There aren't any kids around either.”

He tugs at her arm where his fingers are circled around her wrist, and she comes to him, sliding into his lap, bending so that her knees are on either side of him. This is not necessarily how he had meant for her to sit on him, but Barry has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She sits on his thighs, and he watches in amusement as she tries to figure out what she wants to do with her hands. 

“Touch me wherever you want, West,” Barry says and she clenches her jaw, before just dropping them on her own thighs. Barry looks at her small hands and then back up into her face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Between this morning and just now, Barry has been thinking. He realizes that he’s only got a week to convince her that maybe they should try for something. Barry knows that they could leave this state and she might very well avoid him, not calling or reaching out. Concocting events for her to attend would be met with excuses, in claims of working too much or having no time. And they’d be true, because that’s the kind of worker that Iris is.

So Barry decides that if he’s going to try for this, he can’t waste time. More importantly, though, if he is going to try, he has to get her to see him as who he is now, as interesting and funny, as someone who might be deserving of standing by her side. She’d seen him as boring in high school; she and Linda and their crew had been part of the who’s who of CCH, invited to every party, every social. She’d seen him as stuffy too, uptight and judgemental. That hadn’t been true and it still isn’t. Barry just thinks that he hadn’t understood much of her light, couldn’t fathom holding the attention, the interest, the _love_ of someone like her. But, now, Barry thinks that he might be able to do that for her. She’s always been so much bigger and brighter than he, has always held so much more _something_ , that he’d needed to become something too. He thinks that he can give her that now, if only he can convince her that he’s worth her time.

“I have a request,” he says. He takes both of her hands and places them on his shoulder. Then he places his at her hips. She lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t move her hands or ask him to move his.

“No.”

“What?” His eyes narrow. “You can’t just say no.”

“But I can.”

He moves one of his hands up to her waist, squeezing lightly. “”C’mon. Hear me out, West.”

She looks away from his for a moment, her face thoughtful. He watches, waits, feels something warm gliding through him when her fingers tip up his neck to curl at his nape.

“What?”

“Let’s just,” he pauses, takes a deep breath, adjusts her so she’s more comfortable on him.

That brings her wet body even closer to him, so close he can almost see the tiny droplets of water falling from her skin and mixing with his. She’s warm in his lap, and it could just be from the sun, but she’s burning him, he decides, kindling flames in him, searing her way into his skin, glowing until all that he can see is her.

“Let’s just have fun this week. Let’s not worry about why we’re doing this or the fact that we don’t always get along. Let’s even forget the rules. We can do what feels right. Play nice for the week.”

She gives him all of her attention, tightening her arms around his neck and looking into his face. She searches, for what Barry can’t say, but he stays still and holds her in his arms and she uses her nails to softly scratch at the hair at his nape. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, her white teeth sinking into the plump flesh. He reaches up and traces the curve of her mouth, thumbing at her lip until she releases it, the lip wet and enticing.

“Just do what feels right?”

He nods when she asks, because if he says anything, he’ll tell her what he thinks about her mouth, about the way she feels pressed against him, about how he’s dreamt of being hers since he was five years old and chasing after her smile.

He doesn’t have to worry, though, because she tells him, “Okay,” her voice a near whisper.

Giving her a smile, he presses a soft kiss to her mouth.

************

They tell Joe and Cecile their plans to walk a bit around the island, promising that they would all meet up for dinner. Linda, Wally, and Brandon have found a game of beach volleyball so Iris decides to shoot them a text so they’ll know they’re leaving.

He quickly showers and changes first and then gives up the bathroom to Iris. He’s waiting outside for her when she finally comes down. He’d checked in with Cisco who told him in no uncertain terms that he’d block his number if Barry tried to call back. He’d even put in a call to his parents, leaving a voicemail for his mom when she didn’t answer and it’s as he’s turning around and hanging up that she walks out.

Barry is convinced that she does it on purpose, wearing red when he’s around. It’s been his favorite color since he’d learned them, and there’s something about the color on her tawny brown skin that makes him breathe deeper, makes slight beads of sweat form at his temple. The dress she’s wearing is a more casual version of the dress she’d worn to the gala: the cotton material softer looking, the neckline not quite as deep, though there’s still a slit up her left thigh, exposing a pair of camel colored shoes with simple straps over her toes and around her ankles. It looks like liquid fire on her, as she moves, the material lovingly hugging her soft body. The only jewelry she has on are big gold hoops at her ears that play peekaboo against her braids. The block heels give her some height and she’s at his shoulder when she comes to a stop beside him.

“Can you walk in those?” he asks her.

She pauses from fiddling with the tiny bag at her wrist that matches her shoes to glance up at him. She’s giving him a look he recognizes, the left corner of her mouth lifted in a snarl, and Barry tries to stifle his grin.

“Oh, you look nice, Iris,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “I like your dress.”

His grin erupts then, fully, and he steps closer to her, inhaling the warm honeysuckle scent of her that makes him a bit lightheaded.

“You do look nice,” he tells her, voice a bit lower, hands reaching for her waist because he needs to touch her. “And I really like your dress.”

He brings her closer, wrapping his arm around her to press against her back, and even though she makes a slight noise of protest, she lets herself be pulled.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable. We’ll be walking.”

“Oh,” she breathes out. “I’ll be fine. These are walking shoes.”

Barry merely shakes his head. “Are you ready?”

“Sure.” She doesn’t move though, instead tilting her head to assess him. He’s dressed simply in a pair of navy ankle trousers and a white t-shirt, simple white sneakers on his feet.

“I like the nerd glasses,” she says finally.

Barry rolls his eyes. He doesn’t wear glasses often, usually just when he’s lost his contacts, but being dunked in the ocean had started to dry his eyes, and he wanted to give them a reprieve.

“Thank you, Iris,” she says when he says nothing.

“Are you going to tell me what to say all day?”

She nods. “If you can’t figure it out on your own.”

“Do you treat everyone like this, or is it just me?”

Her answer is to beam at him.

Ignoring that, he takes her hand and they round the house towards the road. The sidewalks are bustling: couples in casual dress holding hands as they look at the sidewalk wares; women in bathing suit tops and shorts laughing loudly as they walk into cafes; men in board shorts chugging beers at outside bars.

They have no destination in mind, so Barry gives Iris the reigns, letting her lead him to wherever she sees fit. The island is one that caters to tourists. There are tons of sidewalk markets, clothes and knicknacks taking up just as much space as the people walking up and down the sidewalks. Iris pulls him to stop at several of them. She doesn’t buy anything, instead cooing at handmade purses, and trying on seashell studded shades that only she can make look glamorous. She talks with the workers at the shops they do stop at, asking questions about their merchandise, listening to the stories that come with places like this. And Barry just watches, holding on to her hand when she’s not using them to talk, grinning at her when she makes jokes on his behalf that leaves the proprietors a little bit in love with her. This is probably what makes her online newspaper so fascinating, the way that she can make those around her feel so at ease that they end up spilling their entire life stories.

They eventually stop at a ramshackle building; it looks like two buildings attached by a patio. There’s a sign that mentions coffee on one side, that building smaller than what Barry assumes is the bar. It’s painted in dirty looking light blue paint and it’s _busy,_ the front patio covered in memorabilia, the tables all placed on the wood in no discernible pattern, each chair occupied by a strange collection of patrons. The clientele doesn’t exactly match the decor and Barry admits that he is a bit confused.

“This looks fun,” Iris says, squeezing absently at his hand to lead him up the stairs.

Barry is not convinced. “You think so?”

She tugs at him. “Yes, fancy pants. These whole in the wall type places always have the best drinks. Just simple cocktails; None of that mixology bullshit.”

“I happen to like that mixology bullshit,” Barry mumbles, but he follows her into the bar because of course he does.

The inside, if possible, is even more astonishing. He thinks that the walls are wood, but it’s all covered so he can’t be too sure. Dollar bills from years and years ago, old license plates, random business signs are what he can see, stuck on the walls next to an innumerable amount of stickers with confusing southern sayings and American flags. There is more open seating inside. Only one person has taken up residence at the end of the bar, and a couple women are sitting in two overstuffed chairs that seem to have just been placed anywhere tables weren’t occupying floor space.

Barry turns when Iris makes a squealing sound.

“See this is the type of place with character, Allen,” she explains, looking around. That, at least, is definitely true.

They decide to sit at the bar, a couple seats down from the older gentleman sitting there, and Barry helps Iris into her seat before he sits.

The bartender tosses a look at them from where he’s at the other end of the bar, three plastic cups in front of him, each half filled with different color liquids. He looks up and shots them a smile

“I’ll be right with y’all,” he says, his voice deep and his accent heavy. He’s about as tall as Barry but bigger, muscley in that gods ole boy way that makes Barry wonder what they’re feeding people down here.

Iris grins back at him. “It’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

The bartender blinks, and Barry sympathizes. Even he has to prepare to be around her. Iris unexpected is something of a shock.

He settles himself comfortably in his seat, turning his body sideways so that he’s facing her. 

“So tell me about Barry Allen.”

Barry wrinkles his nose. “What do you mean?”

“Who are you these days? What do you do when you’re not solving crimes?”

“What?” he questions. “The newspapers don’t tell you enough?”

She lifts the corner of her top lip in a scowl. “Can you chill, smart-ass?”

Barry smiles.

“I’m serious, though,” she continues. “Yes, the newspaper lets us know when you’re donning your superhero cape, but you’re tight lipped about anything else.”

“And you’re surprised about that?”

She shakes her head. “No, not really. But I am curious. What sort of shenanigans do you get up to off the clock? Do you and Cisco hang out a lot?”

“Yeah, we do.” He frowns. “Well, we did. Not as much since he and Kamilla started dating.”

Noting his frown, she lets out a soft laugh. “Aww, is the baby lonely.” She reaches up and pinches at his cheek, and he halts her with his hand on hers.

“Not so lonely now.” He twists their fingers together.

She diverts her eyes, a faint smile in them, and she bites at her lip. “God, it’s so weird to be with you like this.”

He shrugs and hopes it comes off as casual. “We’re supposed to be letting it all happen. Not thinking about it.”

“I know. I know, I just…”

“Let’s just be, Iris.”

“You’re just doing this so you can ruffle me.”

He’s infinitely pleased. “If I’m ruffling you, it’s a good thing.”

“ _How_?” She seems just a _tad_ upset.

“Because it means I’m getting to you the same way you’ve gotten to me.”

Her mouth parts. And just as she’s about to say something, the bartender walks up.

“Hey. Sorry about that wait.”

Iris turns away first, bringing their intertwined hands down from his face. He notes that she holds on to him, though.

“I told you, it’s no worries,” she says, smiling at him. His smile back is automatic, and Barry resists the urge to scoot closer to Iris, to stake his claim.

“So it’s our first time here,” she tells him.

“On the island?”

“In Georgia, period.” 

“Yeah?” The man’s eyes light up. “Welcome! This is a great fucking place.”

His accent is thick, definite southern tones imbued in every syllable. The swear word doesn’t even register because it just sounds like an everyday pattern of speech.

“I’m starting to see that,” Iris flirts, leaning into the counter. “Since we’re new, what do you recommend?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What type of fun you’re tryna have. I can get you fucked up, if you want. The fun kind.” At this, he winks at her. “Or we can just do a few regular drinks. Let you have a good time.”

“How about somewhere in the middle?”

“Of course. I can do that for you.” 

He gives her a quick once over, but Barry sees it, the interest that sparks in his green eyes. It makes him feel...unsure. Barry is nothing like the guys she’s dated before. The guys from high school, that annoying reporter guy, even the man she’d made googly eyes with at the gas station on their way to Savannah, had been a very particular type: tall and muscular, like sports came naturally to them and how to talk to women too. This guy fits that and he doesn’t want Iris to look at this man and look back at Barry and find him lacking.

“I’m really excited.” Iris sort of squeals. “What’s your name?”

“Ethan.”

“Ethan.” She lets the word roll around on her tongue. At least that’s what it seems like to Barry. “This is Barry and I’m Iris.”

He gives Barry a sharp nod before returning his attention to Iris.

“Beautiful name, beautiful girl.” _Ethan_ winks at her again and then turns to make their drinks.

“I’m not the only one with fans,” Barry grumbles.

“What are you talking about?”

He knows she knows what he means, but where he sees no one but her, Iris is _Iris_ , and drawing attention to someone who’s not him doesn’t seem to be best practice.

“Only that it makes no sense that you have no idea what you do to people.”

She licks her lips. “Like you.”

“No, not like me.”

She gives him a look, one that says she’s trying to figure something out, but she doesn’t give him much more.

Their drinks come at the same time that a waitress walks up with a drink order and someone from the kitchen brings out a large pizza teeming with meat and vegetables. The bartender goes to do his job, leaving them to themselves again.

They take sips and it’s delicious, a simple gin drink with a twist. 

“So tell me about what you and Cisco do when he’s not seducing my employee.”

He thinks. “Honestly, nothing exciting. We play video games a lot. Watch movies. Cisco tries to come up with the most insane would you rathers.”

“You really are a nerd,” she grins, pinching his cheek again.

He swats at her hand. “Stop doing that.”

“Oh, you don’t want me to touch you?”

Barry tilts his head at her. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, and meets his gaze. He pushes his glasses up on his nose.

“I've already told you that you can touch me wherever you want, West,” he tells her, a smile in his face.

“ _You_ stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

She grunts her answer and then goes back to her drink, slurping half of it through her straw. 

He reaches out to touch her—because he can never seem to help it—spreading his hands at the base of her spine. She’s leaning against the counter, only half turned to him, but she reacts to his touch. He does as well. She smells like warmth and flowers, a touch of honey on her skin. She feels like heaven, so soft through her dress, and Barry’s own skin feels atingle, tight, full of longing and desire.

They drink more and they talk more. In between gin drinks he suspects are stronger than they realize, Barry tells her more about some of his and Cisco’s escapades: drunken nights in escape rooms, fancy events they get invited to because of his parents, one strip club debacle that Barry never wants to speak about. It takes a while for Iris to move on from that subject and he’s proud to say that he gets through it without breaking.

He learns more about her too. He finds out about some of her and Linda’s wilder nights in college, karaoke nights and bar top dancing, and something about their own strip club mishap. She doesn’t tell him about that either.

But, for the time they’re laughing, and it’s everything Barry could have imagined. And he thinks that maybe his plan is actually working.

  
  


They stay there until they get a text from Linda explaining that the group is going out for dinner. Iris grabs her wrist bag from where it’s been hanging on a hook under the bar while Barry calls for the bartender. He pays as the bartender wishes them well, and then they half stumble out of the bar.

They walk out holding hands, and they are both definitely on the other side of tipsy. He holds his liquor well, because he had to learn to, because there was nothing more cliche in college than the science student who throws up at every frat party. Liquor does make him bolder, though, more flirtatious and less likely to trip all over himself in front of pretty women, in front of Iris. He doesn’t think he’s stopped touching her, stopped finding faintly dirty things to whisper into her ear, stopped trying to steady his heartbeat since they took their first drink. 

Iris’s drunk is subtle. It is a mouth that smiles loosely, eyes that are wide and so brown Barry wants to swim in them. It is her hands on him, her hands on his thigh or her fingers in his hair, stroking at the nape of his neck. She still speaks in that same lilting way, self-assured and melodic. 

And it’s _arousing,_ it is, so much so that he’s not sure he’s even thinking clearly when he grabs her hands tighter and steers her towards an ally. It’s not a particularly deep ally, but he finds cover there, away from the other tourists who’re filling the streets.

“Barry, what?” Iris tries, grabbing at his elbows when he pushes her against the wall of a building.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he closes the distance between them, his chest firm against the soft swells of her breasts. Her hips are so firm when he holds them, hot even through the dress.

“You’re gonna kiss me, aren’t you?” Iris asks, her voice a whisper. “You get this _look_ in your eyes, when you want to kiss me.”

“Yeah?”

She hums. 

“And do I have it now? This look?”

She nods, breathes, “yes.”

A half smile is what he gives her before he leans down and kisses her. He loves the feel of her mouth on his, the way she tastes. He loves how responsive she is; how she always gives in to the pull of his lips, how she never fails to yield to him.

He moves a hand down her hips to the slit in her dress. It’s a high split, and his hand falls to the smooth skin of her thigh. He breaks their kiss, but only to trail his mouth along her jaw, to press kisses at her throat. Her breathy sighs cause a deep stirring in his gut, a quickening in his belly. His fingers push the dress up on her waist, wandering, roaming, trying to find the secrets etched into her skin. He doesn’t, at least not yet. 

What he does find out are what parts of her thighs make her mewl, and the fact that the closer he gets to where he’s sure she’ll be warm and wet, her breath quickens and her body becomes so much more malleable. He taps at her thigh as he bites at a spot just below her ear and her legs widen almost automatically for him, her quiet moans urging him, calling him, asking him to give her some release.

So he does, tries to, asks in a voice so tinged with lust that even he barely recognizes it, “please, Iris, can I feel you on my fingers.”

She blinks down at him, eyes so brown they look black, her lids low. “Yes, Barry.”

It is all he needs to push aside the tiny slip of fabric and glide his middle finger along her slit. She _shudders_ against his hand, and he does it again, slides his finger along her. She’s so wet, and it takes nothing to slip into her. The slippery, velvety feel of her is nearly enough to make him come in his pants. He adds another finger, sliding in and out of her heat, and then Barry presses a thumb to her clit. She cries out, clutches at Barry’s shirt, starts to rock her hips against his hand.

God, he can picture her so clearly on his bed, can almost feel her wet body clamping around his dick. It makes him fuck his hand into her harder, rub her slick onto her clit in easy circles at odds with how quickly his fingers move. He thinks it’s that that brings her to orgasm.

He’s already decided that he likes to watch her come. The sight is beautiful, the way her mouth parts and her eyes close, her head tilted back exposing the long column of her throat. Her pussy clenches around his fingers and she lets out a long low moan in the back of her throat. He memorizes every bit of her face, the shape of her mouth and the curve of her nose, and the lust still swimming in her dark gaze.

He gives her a kiss on the cheek, and then he pulls his hand away from her.

“Jesus.” 

Her breathing is still harsh, but his is too, still loud in their quiet corner. She’s still for a moment longer and then she’s digging into her bag, bringing out a tiny packet of kleenex. She gives him a tissue and he wipes his fingers on it and tries not to watch as she cleans herself up as best she can. He runs his hand down his face, heart drumming at the smell of her still on his hand, and leans against the wall, waiting.

“We should go, Bear,” Iris says. He looks at her, searching for the retreat he’d gotten the last time, but all he gets is her hand and a nod towards the street. He takes it.

************

The Wests and company are already at the restaurant when they walk in. It's filled with the night dinner crowd, and they’ve managed to get an eight seater not too far from the entrance.

“What took y’all so long?” Wally asks.

“We got a little lost,” is Iris’s answer, and Barry doesn’t look at either of them for fear they’ll see the truth on his face.

They sit in the two spaces that have been left open for them, directly across from Brandon and Wally. Linda sits at one head of the table, and Joe sits at the other, Cecile beside him.

“So how was the island exploring?” Joe questions them.

“Good,” Iris says, sitting up and leaning against the table to look at him. 

Barry rubs a thumb along her thigh where he’s placed his hand in the peekaboo of her dress.

“We went to this crazy bar and…” she continues on, recounting their afternoon, leaving out the parts where Barry had held her against the side of a building and tasted her mouth, reacquainted his hands with the slippery, silken feel of her.

They each talk through their day. Joe and Cecile did some exploring of their own, going into a couple of shops and bars right along the beach. They look sun-kissed and wind-swept and they have the sort of glow that Barry attributes to the fact that this is probably the first time since their last vacation that they’ve gotten a chance to be alone. 

Wally, Brandon, and Linda had found some grad school students to spend their time with. They’d played a few games of beach volleyball and enjoyed a couple drinks with them before falling into their beds for naps.

Dinner continues in this way, a rowdy, happy affair. And Barry wants to join in, he does, but there’s something about the day that’s got him a touch overwhelmed. He feels warm from his time with her, the talking and the laughing that had come so easily. But more than that, there’s a stirring in longing in his gut that he can’t shake. Maybe it’s the alcohol still dancing in his system, maybe he didn’t get enough of her moments ago, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s still touching him now, her fingers trailing along his neck as she talks to Linda. Maybe it’s a culmination of it all: his simmering feelings for her, their “dates,” the memory of her thighs spread open for him, the reality of her moans in his ear. Either way, he’s hard in his pants and his breathing is a bit labored, and everything about her in this red dress is making him lose his mind.

She seems to see his conflict (the conflict being whether he wants to take it further with her tonight or if that’d just be pushing his luck) because she turns to him, leaning a touch closer to wonder,

“Is everything okay?”

He faces her, traces his eyes over the soft contours of her face. She’s so goddamn pretty it makes his chest ache, and the rest of him too, and he can’t decide if telling her he wants to be inside of her will ruin his plan or not.

“Yeah,” he says, sliding his tongue along his mouth. Her eyes flicker down so he does it again.

She blinks a couple times, brings her eyes back to meet his, and Barry can’t help but grin at the action.

“What?” he wonders.

“I just…” she shakes her head, and what she says next he’s sure is not what he was thinking. “Are you ready to leave?"

“Now?”

She nods. “We’ve been out all day, and I could go for getting out of these shoes, this dress.”

The visual is unfair, and he tells her so, leaning in to whisper “Iris, you can’t just tell me you want to take off your clothes and expect me not to picture you in our bed” into her ear. 

When he pulls back, her eyes are wide.

“I’m gonna go to the restroom first, though,” she mumbles, and then she hops up, dragging Linda away. He frowns after them.

“The both of them are confusing,” Wally murmurs. 

“That is true,” Barry agrees. 

Linda’s on his side; that much he knows. Before the trip, she’d texted him some tips on how not to annoy Iris, which he probably still needs to use. But she’d explained that she’s known about his sickening love for her best friend (her words, obviously) since they were in high school and figures anyone that into Iris for so long at least deserves a chance. 

When they come back, Iris seems calmer at the same time that she looks annoyed, and Barry knows that’s just par for the course when he thinks about Iris and Linda.

They do wrap up dinner early, explaining a wish to go back to rest and Joe and Cecile smile and give them hugs goodnight, while the rest of them look along in amusement, Linda’s sly smile particularly discerning. 

Their walk home is quiet, Iris’s hand clasped in his as they maneuver the streets of rowdy patrons, their nights only getting started. They’ve come down a bit from the high of the alcohol, and it leaves in its wake that heady sort of atmosphere that makes Barry’s breath come a little faster, makes his sex throb in his pants.

They walk into the house quietly, still holding hands as Iris pulls him up the stairs. She only lets him go when they’re in their room, and then uncertainty sets in. Barry turns on one of the lamps that sits beside the bed, and tries not to stare at the way that bed sits there like a beacon, begging him to lay her out on it. He stands against the wall by that lamp, wondering why his hands feel like they’re tingling and his heart is fit to bursting, nerves swimming in his stomach.

Iris moves deeper into the room, toward the window, dropping her purse in the chair that sits in the corner. She sits in the chair and unbuckles her shoes, letting them fall unceremoniously to the ground. She stretches her ankles in circles a few times, rubs her hands down her thighs, and then stands. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with herself, looking everywhere but at him. He doesn’t say anything, just watches her, because he wants her now, but he wants her to want him too.

She moves to the patio door, slowly twisting the knob and stepping outside. He follows her out.

It’s dark, and only the streetlights and the faint moon light give them anything to see with. It doesn’t matter though, because he doesn’t really need it for how much her skin glows as she stands there in that red dress. He pushes his hands into his pockets and continues to watch her, waiting, hoping. Like he always has.

“What,” she whispers into the darkness. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Here, Barry struggles. More than anything, he wants to see her dress piled on the floor mixed in with his own clothes. He wants her taste in his mouth again, wants her cream coating his fingers. He wants to see what she looks like wrapped around him, her thighs bracketing his hips, her skin flushed and magnificent against his. But he doesn’t want her to look at him tomorrow like they didn’t happen. They’ve still got days here and he wants nothing more than to explore _them_ in those days.

“If I told you it’s because I want to be inside of you right now, would you yell at me?”

Her responding breath is loud, even against the sound of people laughing and talking down on the dark beach. He can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers grip the balcony railing. He feels like that too: anxious, in need of a tether, something to tie him to this moment, to the fact that it’s real, _she’s real,_ and he might get to make love to her tonight.

“We’re doing what feels right. Right?”

 _God, please, yes._ “Right.”

“And it’s just this week, right?”

It wasn’t. They were going to be more than this week; they had to be. But Barry would take this now, and tomorrow he’d keep trying, and then the next day too. Until she saw him like he needed her too.

So he just says, “right,” again and closes the distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't yell at me for the ending! :)
> 
> But hey y'all. SO sorry this took so long. Life is happening and I can't always write when I want. I'm gonna try really hard to get up the next chapter in the next couple weeks, though.
> 
> Barry's voice always takes me a while to get the hang of so I hope y'all enjoyed this. Y'all know I greatly appreciate your kudos and comments (y'all are truly da best) so let me know what you think about this chapter and your predictions for the next chapter!
> 
> (Per usual, I hope I got all the typos. After a while, the words all seem to run together.)
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle


	9. IX.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris keeps having feelings and it's driving her insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure you have some time. This one is a doozy.

IX.

_What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way; What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you_

_Barry moves toward her slowly, his steps measured and sure. She feels...out of sorts, like her body is making decisions for her and she’s powerless to do anything but follow them. That isn’t to say that she doesn’t want to, because she does. Traces of alcohol still move through her system, but she’s aware of who she is and what she’s doing—who Barry is and what he’s doing. She knows her own breathing is labored, the thrum of anticipation making her feel like she’s been running a marathon; and she thinks it’s that way for Barry too, if the slight quiver of his hand as he reaches up to touch her is any indication._

_The hurried feeling from outside of the bar dissipates and in its wake is a dawdling sort of feel, like they’ve got all night and their plans just might take the time. He grabs her hand and leads them back inside, closing the patio door behind them. It feels different inside, more real in the way that there’s a bed there waiting for them and it’s large and beckoning, the image of them writhing there almost real._

_He drops her hand, pulling until the tips of her fingers slide against his palm, and then he wraps his arms around her waist. Her body seems to mold to him, curving into him, folding around where he is hard and solid in the same places she is soft. He tightens his arms around her, his hands wide on her back, her own hands clutching at his biceps. She’s ready and waiting when he presses his mouth to hers. This kiss reminds her a little bit of earlier, how strong his mouth was on hers. But, the kiss is slower, deeper: an easier glide of his tongue and a gentler move of his mouth. It’s now that she discovers how much she loves kissing Barry. Since that first stolen one at the gala, his kisses have conjured up something in her that’s more vibrant than she’s ever felt, more electrifying than she’s ever known. He is attentive, like she’s always known he was, but it’s different when the attention is on her. It’s different when his singular focus is on coaxing sighs and moans from her._

_They kiss until Iris starts clutching at his arms, digging her nails into his flesh. When she pulls away, he’s still there, hands sliding up her spine. He starts to help her out of her clothes. He places his hands on her shoulders and then he slides the straps of her dress down her arms. She pulls her arms out of it, and he continues to push the dress down over her hips. Her bra is next, then her panties too, and then Barry’s pushing her back onto the bed. He stays standing, stripping out of his own clothes, grinning up at Iris when he notes how intensely she watches him peel away the layers of fabric._

_When he’s almost fully naked, his clothes piled on the floor next to hers, he crawls up to kneel between her thighs. They settle against the pillows, she does, and she keeps her legs planted on either side of his knees, her thighs pressing into the heat of his. She watches, waiting, not understanding why he’s still in his boxer briefs, not understanding why he’s not already naked and sliding into her. Then he begins to touch her._

_He slides his hands up the sides of her thighs, drawing words into her calves and up over her thighs, his touch light. It is just the tip of his fingers that glide up her body, but the calluses are like tiny pricks of heat, and Iris lifts her hips in some form of a protest. She needs him closer, she needs him now, and all of her tightens with the thought of it._

_“Patience,” Barry mutters, a hint of a smile on his pink lips. He keeps his steady pace, walking up in slow tips until he gets to the middle of her. Then he grips much of the meat of her thighs and spreads them wide, her trimmed pussy slick and open for his view. She wants to shutter herself from his gaze, but what she sees on his face keeps her there, exposed to him._

_“I didn’t really get to look at you last time,” he says, the register of his voice lower than she’s ever heard it. “I knew you were soft, baby, but not pretty like this.”_

_The words, spoken so deeply, so reverently, makes her blush. She’s a black girl, and she’s not supposed to, but she swears her entire body flushes with the heat of his words, brown skin tingeing red. Her sex does too, it has to, blushing with the flood of heat, the flood of arousal that coats her. It’s odd to think of Barry, even the Barry who went from stuttering science facts to confidently explaining crime scenes, as someone who likes dirty talk, but whatever it is, it works for him—and for her too, if her body’s response tells her anything._

_He keeps touching her. He fingers up one side of her labia and down the other. He repeats the gesture, one more time, and then he slides the tip of his finger through her arousal._

_“You’re so wet, Iris.”_

_He slides the finger further, dipping into the knuckle, and Iris gasps, eyes fluttering closed. He keeps touching her, playing with her, playing_ in _her. He gathers her wetness on his fingers and rubs it all over her, priming her to take him. He gives her another finger, two up til he can palm her clit, caressing inside of her until she starts to ride his hand, her knees sinking into the mattress. He keeps touching her until she’s begging. She is literally begging, muttering_ “please, baby; barry please fuck me now,” _the sound dragging out of her._

_“All you had to do was ask,” Barry says, grinning, and then he’s gone. But before she has a chance to miss him, he’s back, his briefs gone and a condom covering his sex. He bobs against his thigh as he crawls back to her, thicker than she had anticipated, longer too. He leans over her, presses a sweet kiss to her mouth, and then he slides into her._

_The invasion is jarring. He’s thick, swollen against her walls, her body clenching as it adjusts to him. He holds on to her hips, and he begins to rock, easing out of her and snapping back in. This move starts them off, takes them places: the way he swivels his hips every time he meets her pelvis, how the move makes him brush against her clit, the way she stutters his name as he goes deeper, harder, even in the same steady rhythm. It gets him to lean in and press kisses down her chest, mumbled words she can’t quite make out a steady backdrop to the liquid sound of him fucking into her._

_It’s embarrassing how quickly she comes after he’s inside of her. He grasps one of her hands over her head with the one still wet from her, and he rocks his hips into her, his strokes firm and slow. She touches him wherever she can with her free hand: at the side of his waist, where her touch falters his rhythm so she does it again and again; along the curve of his jaw, the action catching and holding his gaze, the orbs like liquid mercury in the night; at the nape of his neck, holding on to the strands because it’s the only thing that she can think to keep him close, to stay wrapped up all around in him. She can feel the quiver of his dick inside her, his hard chest brushing against hers as kisses at her face, her cheeks, her jaw. When he closes his eyes and takes her mouth, her body seizes. She pulls at the hair in her hand, her lips parted against his, breathing him in, and her thighs grip his hips to keep him there, to hold him in her heat. Her hips rock with the sensation, picking up speed, and it’s only minutes after she shatters beneath him that he explodes too._

_He stays on top of her for a moment before he falls off beside her, tired and satiated._

_“Fuck, Barry” she says, dropping her arm over her eyes. His answer is to hold her hand. She’s breathing heavily, he is too, and that’s all that’s said for long minutes. She must fall asleep because when she comes to, the light is off and Barry’s knocked out beside her, the comforter draped over them. She gets up to use the restroom really quickly, and the tied off condom in the trash and the lack of stickiness between her thighs tells her he must have cleaned them up before dozing off._

_With a fond shake of her head, she climbs back into bed with him and falls easily into sleep._

************

When Iris wakes up the following morning, there is no one there beside her. She blinks slowly, the light in the room faint. A clock fixed to the wall tells her that it’s after 9, and a groggy look out of their window explains why it’s so dim. The sky is gray, rolling clouds hinting at a storm brewing. It’s not ideal vacation weather, but there seems to be something telling about waking up like this—alone and in the dark. The feeling that sweeps through her is some strange mix of calming and upsetting, and she stares out of the window, trying to make sense of it all. She gives the sky probably too much of her attention, before finally casting her eyes around the room.

Before he’d left the room, Barry must have attempted to clean up, because their clothes are hanging neatly over the back of the chair that sits in the corner, and the shoes he’d worn yesterday are sitting up near the dresser where she’s sure he didn’t leave them. Everything is like the morning before, on the previous day, when she’d woken up to a quiet room and a cold bed and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he’s just gone for a run again and not running away from her. Again. 

She’s still naked. The covers that she’s wrapped up in smell like rosewood and shea butter and sex, and it’s just the sort of smell that she would want to revel in, if she had woken up pressed into the hardness of Barry’s chest, his swollen sex nestled against her. She can admit that she had wanted to see him in the light of day, to see how his drowsy eyes would flutter open or how his voice would be deeper, sleep-tinged and rough. She can admit that she would have wanted to feel him again: his big hands holding her thighs open, his mouth latching onto her nipples, his hips slow-stroking into her. 

She’d gone to sleep with the imprint of him on every part of her body and waking up without the reminder, without the reality, is jarring. She had given in last night, had let his words settle over her and abated whatever doubt she’d amassed and it’s like a slap in the face, to wake up like this. She feels angry, and a little bit hurt, and she doesn’t know what to do with all of that. Because they were only supposed to be doing what feels good, what feels right, and maybe for Barry, being there when she’d woken up hadn’t.

The cracking sound of thunder brings her away from her musings. She’s got days left to spend in Barry’s presence and being hurt won’t get them anywhere. They’ll be how they were before, fighting and pretending, and Iris knows that she’ll be fine until it all ends again. She’s been fine since she was 13 years old and she will be again. She has to be. 

With the impending storm, Iris can imagine that they won’t be doing much outside. So after her shower, she lotions up and throws on a comfortable pair of shorts in the softest cotton and a matching cropped sweater, keeping her hair tied up. Then she gets ready to face the day.

Iris is walking out of the room when she’s suddenly pushed back in. She stumbles on her feet, barely righting herself before she’s looking into the deep brown eyes of her best friend.

“Iris West,” Linda murmurs, and there’s a faint smile on her face that’s a bit too lascivious for 9 o’clock in the morning. She’s dressed comfortably too, in leggings and a t-shirt, hair piled up in a bun.

“What?” Iris frowns at her. “And what are you doing?”

Linda lifts an eyebrow. “Your night must have been fantastic.”

Iris’s frown deepens. “No,” she lies. “Fuck Barry Allen.”

That vehemence startles even Iris and it pulls Linda up short. “What, Iris? He’s down there cooking and you…”

“Wait.” Iris stops her with a hand up. “He’s doing what?”

“Making breakfast. Like a full fucking spread.” She pauses and really looks at Iris, probably noting the way her mouth is pulled down and her eyes won’t quite settle on anything. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” she says, backing up until she can plop back down on the bed, suddenly tired. “I just thought…”

“That he just wasn’t here when you woke up?” Linda asks, her smile kind. “Iris, you have to start seeing what’s in front of you.”

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Iris didn’t know what was in front of her. Oh, she’s got some ideas. After sex with him last night,

(sex where he’d played with her body likes he’s always known it; where he’d whispered frenzied declarations in her ear, words that sounded like _love_ and _forever_ and _stay with me_ )

she can no longer pretend that he’s just playing this game with her, that he’s merely using this ploy as a reason to get under her skin. At the very least, she knows that he’s attracted to her. The way he touches her, the way he kisses her—god, the way he _fucks_ her—leaves little doubt of that fact. But attraction is just that. It is sex and it is fun, and it does not involve staying.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she tells Linda. “There is nothing in front of me.”

“Iris,” Linda says, and there is something too close to pity in her eyes. “Barry is…”

Iris shaking her head stops Linda. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Barry didn’t just leave you alone.” Linda huffs out in annoyance, throwing her hands up. “Granted, this wasn’t his brightest idea, but he is downstairs cooking for you. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why you won’t just talk about it.”

“Because it makes it real, Linda!” 

Iris stands at the outburst she didn’t mean to make, moving to the other side of the room. She feels her breathing grow heavier, feels her chest tighten as if something is gripping at her lungs, trying to hold on to her heart. She leans against the dresser because she doesn’t know what else to do, and she bites at her lip, trying to calm down.

“Linda, if I have this conversation, then it makes it real. If I…” She pauses, breathes in deeply, and then she turns to the other woman. “Barry was my best friend, Linda. My very best friend. I know we were just kids, but he was my _person._ And then he wasn’t.” She blinks back tears that threaten to escape. “And I can’t let him be anything else again.”

She thinks that the finality of it, the way she’s convinced even herself of this, is what makes Linda nod. Then she steps forward, and wraps her arms around Iris’s shoulders. Iris hugs her back, squeezing her once before pulling away.

“So what are you going to do?” Linda wants to know.

Iris lifts her shoulders in a shrug of nonchalance she doesn’t feel. “Keep doing what we’re doing, with no expectations of him. And when this is over, Barry Allen and I never speak again.”

Linda looks at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, except for the tiny frown that turns her mouth down. She opens her mouth, closes it. She shakes her head at Iris before muttering,

“You know I love you.”

“Of course I do.”

“And I think that you’re wrong.”

Iris rolls her eyes and starts towards the door. “You always think I’m wrong.” 

“Yeah, so…” She inclines her head.

“So I need you to let it go.”

Linda pauses again. “If that’s what you want.”

It is. It’s not. Iris doesn’t fucking know. She only knows what she feels, what she’s felt before, what she doesn’t want to feel again.

“Let’s just go downstairs,” she says instead of agreeing.

Linda just nods again and grabs her hand.

The scene that greets her when she hits the bottom of the staircase makes her smile, makes her heart feel the slightest bit lighter. Her family seems to have decided to take advantage of the day and they’re sitting in relative darkness, except for the blinds pushed back on the windows and the gray sky lighting what the television doesn’t. Her dad and Cecile are in the loveseat, a blanket tossed over them, Cecile curled into him. Wally and Brandon are wrapped up in each other at one end of the couch. 

“You should go talk to him,” Linda suggests, giving her a look before walking into the living room to join their movie. She waits until Linda has settled on the same couch as Wally and his boyfriend before moving.

Iris follows the smell of bacon and coffee into the kitchen.

“Hey,” Barry greets her, his eyes bright, his smile soft. Iris wonders if anyone would miss her if she just ran away, if she left until she could figure out what it was about Barry Allen that made her feel so deeply. He looks... _good_. He looks refreshed and well rested and it makes her chest cave in, the influx of this emotion so different from the one she’d woken up with. He’s smiling at her like he thinks the world of her, like everything just falls into place when he looks at her, and it reinforces the idea that she’s not cut out for this.

“Let me get you coffee,” he says, and he moves away from where pancakes are cooking on the stovetop griddle to the coffee pot. He points to a chair across from him, indicating that she should sit down. She does, sweeping her eyes over the counter where he has indeed pulled out all the stops. She can’t say what they all are because he’s got several dishes on the stove covered, but there is fruit in a bowl waiting and she pops a grape into her mouth.

He pours her a large cup of coffee, adds almond milk and cinnamon, and then he walks it over to her. She turns to him, the action practically reflexive, and he steps between her knees. Only the mug in her hand keeps him from closing the distance between them and she avoids his eyes momentarily by taking a sip from her mug. 

He lets her, showing a patience that seems to be a part of his nature. He doesn’t touch her, instead looking at her cautiously. His eyes search her face, trying to hold on to her gaze, but she shifts, blinking over his shoulder at her family 

“No, Iris, don’t do that.” His voice is gentle, but the underlying firmness is there.

“Don’t do what?”

“Hide from me.” He carefully takes the coffee mug from her hand and places it on the counter. He steps into her thighs and they spread for him, because she’s letting this happen until it has to end. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He reaches up and runs his thumb along the apple of her cheek before running the same digit along the bottom curve of her bottom lip. She blinks, the action slow like she’s drunk, and Iris figures that it’s that moment where she realizes that this is what it is. Barry Allen makes her feel drunk. He makes her feel sluggish and warm and like the only time she can feel her fingers are when they’re touching him.

“Tell me, Iris.”

She licks her lips, catching the tip of his thumb in the process. “I missed you this morning.”

What flashes in his eyes is not what she’d been expecting. She’d have guessed guilt, maybe, eyes shuttered in self-reproach. What she gets is something altogether different. Oh, there is a little bit of the guilt, but something else calculating, something that mirrors satisfaction.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” he said, still holding on to her chin with his thumb and forefinger. He grips her lighting, holding her steady, his gaze unwavering. “I honestly didn’t know if you would want me to.”

“You didn’t think I would care that you’d left me in bed alone after you fucked me?” Her voice is a harsh whisper and she blames it on the drunk feeling that Barry gives her.

He plants his hand at her waist, fingers squeezing like he seems to enjoy.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she can’t mistake the sincerity in the words. “Really.” Then he gives her a half smile, one on the other side of cocky, one that says he’s got a pretty good idea of what he does to her. “I made you breakfast, though.”

“This is a lot of food for just me,” she quips, and his grin widens.

He presses a quick kiss to her mouth, and then he’s gone, off to flip more goddamn pancakes. Iris concludes that she’s liable to go crazy before the day ends.

Breakfast is a treat. In addition to the fruit, Barry has whipped up chocolate chip pancakes, fluffy eggs, and crisp turkey bacon. Linda makes them all mimosas—or champagne, rather, diluted with the barest hint of orange juice. They eat around the dining room table with the window open and the storm picking up outside, but it’s nice, fun and relaxing. They sit there for an hour or more, telling stories about their jobs and drinking mimosas until they’re full and lethargic.

After, they settle around the living room, throwing on _Living Single_ after finding it on Hulu, the show a perfect laugh track for their mood. They all resume their places from earlier in the day, with Barry sitting in the corner of the couch. With Wally, Linda, and Brandon sprawled on the couch too, the only space she might find some comfort is in Barry’s lap, and the smile he gives her tells her he recognizes that.

She hesitates, a blanket in hand, long enough for Wally to mutter, “Will you sit down, Iris?” and then she has no choice but to do so. As soon as she sits down, Barry wraps his arms around her. Tired of her own need to think too much, she settles into his hardness. He is warm and solid, and she likes that he still smells a little bit like pancakes and chocolate, so she snuggles into him, the weight of his hand heavy on her thigh. She drops her head onto his shoulder and watches the show until the sound of the black twenty-somethings in the New York brownstown lulls her to sleep.

When they wake up, they’re alone, and it feels so much like the night at Barry’s parents’ house that she jumps up. The room is empty, the television turned off, and she imagines everyone is in their rooms. She tries to move away from the couch and nearly falls, her feet tangling in the blanket. Her stumbling is loud on the hardwood floors and it wakes Barry, his body jerking.

“Iris, what?” Barry mumbles, blinking awake. He sits up too to notice that they must have been sprawled along the couch, stretching out when everyone else had vacated. The storm rages on, one of those southern summer storms that’ll only make the humidity unbearable the next day, and Barry casts a glance out of the window, rubbing at his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he questions. His hair is wild and sleep mussed, a look she hasn’t seen on him in years, and it takes her a minute to answer.

“Yes, I, I’m fine.” She looks around at the empty room. “Just didn’t want anyone catching us, uh, like that.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they were caught in a compromising position. On one of the last times they had hung out, it’d been a cold December day. Her dad had been working late, and she and Barry had been watching Wally, though watching seems to be a bit of a misnomer. Wally had been in his room—this was around the time he’d become obsessed with video games—and Barry and Iris, having completed their homework, had been laid out on the couch watching a movie.

Iris remembers the day vividly. It’s one of those memories that have no true significance but it’s stuck there, a cog in a wheel of her vital moments that she can’t always place. In the months since he’d been in high school, Barry had shot up, his limbs long and gangly. Braces in 7th grade had straightened his teeth out and acne had decided to annoy some other teenager, leaving his face baby smooth and his teeth pearly, and Barry suddenly someone that didn’t seem like just Barry.

With Wally occupied, they’d snacked on kettle corn popcorn and orange pop, some random superhero movie playing because it was Barry’s turn to choose. The specifics escape her. She knows that at some point, she’d grabbed a blanket from the basket of blankets they kept near one of the sofas, and she’d curled herself into. Moments later, Barry had complained about being cold too, so they’d had to maneuver themselves until they were both covered. Barry’s length required more room and the couch wasn’t particularly large, so he’d laid down and let her find comfort wherever she could among his limbs. That meant that Iris was stretched out across him, their legs tangled, and her cheek pressed into his abdomen, solid enough for 14 year old Iris to think about it for weeks after.

She’s sure they’d just fallen asleep, even with his hand on the small of her back and hers pressed against his side, under the fabric of his shirt. But her dad had walked in, who knows how long after, yelling and fuming, and looking at them both like he didn’t know what to do with them. It was the day her dad decided they shouldn’t hang out alone anymore. Maybe it was the same day Barry decided they shouldn’t really be friends anymore too.

Obviously, the circumstances are different now. They’re grown and they can be alone, though whether or not they should be is still up in the air for Iris. What had been there for Iris then is different now. Barry had merely been a friend, though something else had begun to lurk around the edges. Now, they’re only friendly on good days—when her skin tingles from his touch and his smile curves into her neck. But that thing, that hidden, sneaking, waiting thing is there—bigger and bolder and so conspicuous that Iris needs sunglasses to shield herself from it. 

“I’m sure we wouldn’t get in trouble now,” Barry mumbles, the corner of his mouth ticking up. The memory of years past fades, though not completely, remnants of that night (her feelings and her body’s delayed reaction) creating an echo in the back of her mind.

She nods. “Of course not. I…” 

She doesn’t know how to finish that statement so she just keeps nodding. Barry watches the motion of her head, his smirk sitting annoyingly on his mouth.

“What’s going on, Iris?” he asks as he stands. His body moves with the poise of a cat, graceful and predatory as he unfurls his long body from the couch. Before last night, she could only imagine, could only speculate at his prowess. Before last night, she could tell herself that it was but a fluke, this new elegance and certainty with which he moved. It isn’t (a fluke, she means) and watching him move towards her causes her breath to catch in her throat, makes her nipples pebble against the fabric of her sweater. 

“I,” she starts, but she steps back, not particularly sure she likes the way he’s looking at her.

(or she does, and she can’t admit it, because it means that what she told Linda might have been a lie, that he could be _something_ : more, greater, _hers_.)

“You?” he questions, eyes already darkening to that gray that means he’s aroused, his body closing in on her until he’s got her pressed against the wall. “You what, Iris?”

Her lips part as she attempts to speak, but the words die there. Her mouth stays parted, she can tell the way she exhales through her teeth, and Barry traces the open lines of her lips. Her eyes drop to his long finger, and then back up to his face, mapping the moles spotted across the line of his jaw. 

She doesn’t know what it is about this scene that’s got her so flustered, and she attributes it to the wide range of emotions she’s been feeling since Barry came back into her life; feelings that change at the drop of a hat, with no permission from her, and with no instructions on how to respond to any of them.

“Iris,” Barry breathes, her name coming out on the exhale. “Do I make you nervous?”

She shakes her head no even as she gulps, even as her stomach flutters, and her knees show gratitude to the wall for her holding her up.

“You make me nervous too,” he says, gliding his finger over his cheek so that he can press his hand above her head.

“I certainly can’t tell,” she snaps, trying to stifle the memory of them in this same position, except horizontal, his hands holding hers above her head as he slow stroked her into oblivion.

His expression doesn’t change as he reaches down to grab her hand with the one not holding her on the wall. He moves it to his chest, and there’s no mistaking the feel of his heart, the _thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, thump-thump_ that beats rapidly against her palm.

“I’m always nervous when you’re around, Iris.”

She wouldn’t believe him, especially with that fucking half smirk still on his face, but his heartbeat can’t be lying. His kiss might not be lying either, not the one he gives her now, lips soft on hers. The kiss is quick, almost sweet in how he simply tastes her, with just the movement of his mouth. But like any time he kisses her, there is intention there, something deliberate, almost calculating. It makes everything she’s thought previously about lust and sex and Barry Allen feel wrong.

With a final peck to her lips, he pulls away from her, and they go in search of the others, though there’s a few long moments that pass before she can follow after him.

When they go to bed that night, laughter dying on their lips from hours of games with her family, their bellies full of Chinese takeout, Barry wraps himself around her. He tucks her into his chest, his hand settling on her hip, but he doesn’t take it any further.

She isn’t disappointed. _She isn’t._

************

Wednesday morning finds her the way previous mornings have, eyes opening groggily, body stretching along the soft mattress. Except this time, Barry is there, curled into her. He’s still asleep, his hair sticking up all over his pillow, his lips lips slightly parted as he breathes deeply. She scoots closer to him, and he pulls her into him, her face against his chest. She thinks that he’s still asleep until she feels his hand slide down her back to cup her ass cheek, his hand hot on her skin where her shorts have ridden up.

“Barry,” she whispers, a little bit breathlessly, and Barry makes a sound that’s like a grumble in his chest.

“You’re so soft,” he says, voice deep and scratchy, and it makes Iris shiver, literally, her body vibrating against him. He pulls her closer to him, hand still on her backside, and the move brings her flush with the length of him. She can feel him, all of him, the solid wall of his chest, his hard stomach, the rigid column of flesh between his thighs. Her body responds accordingly, thighs widening, clit throbbing with the anticipation of him being inside of her again.

The knock on the door, loud and hard, jolts them apart.

“Get up,” her dad yells, his voice effectively cooling the heat that had begun to settle between her legs. “We’re going to the beach.”

Barry’s groan encapsulates her response too.

The last three days of their trip follow a pattern. They wake up to breakfast, not another one quite as elaborate as Barry’s on Tuesday morning, and then they venture down to the beach til after midday. What they do at the beach varies. More often than not, Cecile and Iris’s dad settle under their large umbrella and watch the waves, reading or half asleep. Brandon, Wally, and Linda make games out of people watching, telling stories that get more elaborate as the minutes pass.

And Iris and Barry. Well, as it seems to be the theme of the vacation, Iris just goes with the flow, following Barry’s insistence that they simply do what feels good for the rest of the trip. That means that while on the beach, she usually finds herself half wrapped around him. Most of the time, they sit together in the sand, Barry explaining various natural beach phenomena to her, like the fact that there are places where the beach sands are red or even black; or the fact that playing at beaches wasn’t even a thing until sometime after the dawn of the 18th century. She doesn’t really care, but she’s always liked how he sounds when he’s discussing facts that no one else knows, so she’s happy to let him ramble.

They play a couple of games of beach volleyball with Linda, Brandon, and Wally—after that first day, Linda had gone out to buy a ball for the net—switching up teams until it’s Linda and Iris against the boys and they beat them handily.

Other times, they swim in the shallow waters, play fighting and plunging each other into the ocean until they’re both soaking wet and tired, falling out into the sand to catch their breath. On one of those times, an adorable little dark haired kid had implored Barry to help him build sandcastles that he couldn’t quite get right, and she had watched him help. Iris had stared, a bit helplessly, as Barry grinned at the little boy, explaining the physics of sandcastles as if the child understood every word. Iris had pointedly _not_ thought about Barry saying the same things to another child that looked way too similar to this, except he’d be brown cheeked and curly haired and his eyes would be anywhere between a chocolate brown and a seafoam blue.

No, she doesn’t think about that.

They all go into Savannah on Wednesday for lunch in the downtown historic district. The restaurant sits right in an area called City Market. It features several blocks of restaurants and bars and cute little shops, and Iris is not ashamed of how much she, Linda, and Cecile oooh and aaah at their surroundings. It’s a beautiful area, the pavement interspersed with lush greenery, red brick buildings lining the graveled walking streets.

The group settles at Vinnie Van GoGo’s, a pizza place with outdoor seating that provides them with the perfect view of a band that’s setting up only a couple doors down from them.

“Cecile, Savannah was a great choice,” Wally tells her, grinning as he throws an arm over Brandon’s shoulders.

“Yeah, it really is,” Linda agrees. “I’m always so grateful that y’all let me join you.”

“Because I don’t get a vote,” Wally says, and Linda throws up her middle finger on instinct.

“Children,” Joe mumbles, but he’s smiling into his beer.

It makes Iris smile too, being in this beautiful place with the people she cares about the most.

“So baby girl,” her dad starts after the waiter drops their pizzas onto the table and they’ve all pulled a slice of the cheesy, meaty, or vegetable laden pizzas onto their plates.

Iris sips from her vodka soda. “What?”

“You never told me how you and Barry got back together.”

Barry, biting into a slice of piping hot meat pizza, makes a gurgling sound, and Iris looks across at her dad, eyes wide. Linda, her so-called best friend, laughs out loud, and Brandon looks on at her with a questioning expression.

“Why would you need to know that?” Iris asks, not bothering to examine his use of the word back in the same way she didn’t ask Barry’s parents about it.

Joe squints his eyes at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Barry’s hand on her thigh halts whatever nonsense she was probably about to say, and he wipes at his mouth before muttering,

“We saw each other a lot at work. We had coffee a couple times, and,” he shrugs like it’s the truth, “here we are.” Which, she supposes, is not exactly _untrue_.

“Hmmm,” Joe hums. “Barry, you never said anything.”

Iris frowns, thinking about all those years her dad spent fraternizing with the enemy. She finds herself angry (and sure, just a bit envious) that Barry had decided to continue to access every other member of her family except her, mentoring Wally all through school and chatting up her dad whenever the mood struck him.

“I was following Iris’s lead,” he says, and Iris wants to literally throttle him.

She squeals as she turns to glare at Barry, eyes blazing, his own dancing with unrestrained mirth.

“Oh _baby_ ,” Iris nearly growls, grabbing at his neck to bring his ear down to meet her mouth. “I will yank your tongue out of your mouth,” she whispers loudly.

Barry pulls back, grinning. He presses a curved finger under her chin. “You’re pretty when you’re mad at me,” he says, and he gives her a quick kiss.

“Gag,” Linda murmurs, and when Iris shoots her a look, Linda has the nerve to wink.

That takes the attention away from them, though, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in City Market, laughing and joking, taking advantage of the open container laws that let them walk into bars to grab drinks and then park with them outside on the sidewalk.

The band that had been setting up plays them into the night. Their vibe is more alternative, dancing drums mixed with crooning keyboards and a singer with some funk in his heart. Linda and Wally get plastered, and then they start dancing in the street, Joe and Cecile alternating between trying to get them to sit down and egging them on. When several other couples and groups join them, just as the sky darkens and the crowd thickens, they decide to just enjoy the party.

Barry convinces her to take a finger shot at Wet Willie’s, a decision she will no doubt regret in the morning, but his smile is beautiful in the southern moonlight, and his eyes sparkle with alcohol and happiness, And when he pulls her close and presses a kiss to her forehead, she wraps her arms around his waist and plants her chin on his chest, gazing up at him unabashedly. She’s unsure what he’s seeing as he looks down at her. 

They’re standing in the middle of the street. Around them, older couples dance to music they probably don’t recognize. College students chug plastic cups full of beer as they walk up from an underground bar yelling nonsensical words of encouragement. Her family eats on more pizza they’ve ordered, Wally and Linda talking over each other because that’s the kind of drunks they are; Cecile snuggled into Joe because alcohol makes her touchy (and her dad too, but Iris doesn’t like to acknowledge that); and Brandon staring at them all, a contented smile on his face and a confused look in his eyes like he can’t quite figure out how he’s managed to become a part of this.

Iris sticks close to Barry, figuring he’s more likely to watch out for her, even as the people mill around them.

“We’re literally in the way, Allen,” she mumbles at one point and his response is just to pull her along as they stroll through the courtyard.

They don’t go into any more bars, Barry holding the frozen daiquiri they’re meant to share; they just walk hand in hand, weaving through half drunk patrons that don’t care that it’s the middle of the week. It’s summertime and during the summer, the rules are different. Long days and too hot nights make for lowered inhibitions, for decisions that don’t make sense for the harsh cold days of winter.

Summer here, in the south, seems even more unreal. The humidity sticks to Iris’s skin like a second coat, and it makes the thin-strapped floral print sundress she’s wearing mold to her. Barry already has a tan from being here, and his skin is sun-kissed and dewy from the sheen of sweat that covers him. The heat should be cloying, sticky and unbearable. But Spanish moss drapes down from trees that seem to be a part of buildings and the sky seems bluer here, deep and rich, simply a backdrop for the stars that light the night. 

Rules don’t seem to be real, what with people drinking and dancing in the street, streets blocked off to allow for foot traffic, the smell of green mixed with the faint scent of the river mixed with traces of weed smoke in the air. Several people stop Barry and Iris to tell them what a cute couple they are, even begging to take a picture with them because they’d quote, never seen two people as pretty as you two, end quote. The daiquiri they share keeps them cool at the same time that it warms them from the inside, and soon, Iris is a liquid mess, drunk and happy, a near permanent smile etched onto her mouth.

They meet up with the rest of the group and pile into an Uber around midnight, sated and exhausted. She’s pretty sure she falls asleep against Barry’s shoulder where they sit in the back of the van, because when she’s cognizant again, Barry is somehow carrying her weight up the stairs to their bedroom and pressing kisses to her temple.

He helps her out of her clothes, claiming showers for the morning, and she slips into a t-shirt before sliding into their bed, only taking a quick moment to wash makeup from her face and tie up her hair. Barry follows soon after.

And even though she’s much too tired, when they don’t have sex again that night, Iris grants herself a modicum of disappointment. 

************

Thursday finds them back in the city but down on the riverwalk instead. They’d all nursed their inevitable hangovers on the beach, chugging bottles of water and probably soaking in too much sun, half asleep until they make themselves leave.

The river walk is bustling in a different way than the city market area. The water is more gray than blue but no less noteworthy. It calls to families and couples and friends in this little slice of history. There are several statues and memorials dotted along the walk. They spend some time with those, marveling at the craftsmanship of them all, one being the waving girl, a statue of Florence Martus who would wave at ships as they came into the port during the late 19th, early 20th century. 

What really catches their attention is the African American Monument, a bronze statue that depicts a family who had been enslaved, father, mother, son, and daughter, all hugging, chains at their feet. They sit with it a while, taking in the inscription of a Maya Angelou quote written beneath, and Joe kisses both Iris and Wally on the forehead before they move on.

They walk along the cobblestone streets for much of the afternoon. Street performers set up their makeshift stations, instruments at the ready, hats or open guitar cases waiting for spare change and crumpled dollar bills. They watch three black teenagers do a rousing rendition of “In the Jungle” with nothing but an upside down bucket, a pair of drumsticks, and their mouths. That gets all of them to reach into their pockets, throwing out what they can. 

They dip in and out of the stores, splitting up between their interests. Barry follows Linda and Iris into dress shops and gift stores, holding the few bags they accumulate as souvenirs for Allegra and Kamilla, even finding some weird science compound replica for Cisco. They all lose their collective shit when they discover River Street Sweets. The tiny store is filled wall to wall with chocolates and taffy and something called pralines, a nut similar to a pecan dipped in crystallized sugar and, hands down, the best thing Iris has ever put into her mouth.

Barry buys her a couple bags.

They do this until they’re tired and hungry, the too sweet pralines only satisfying them for a while. The entire time, Barry keeps her hand firmly wrapped in his, kisses her temple when no one is watching—and sometimes when they are—only stepping away from her to pay for something or to whisper something to Wally or Joe.

Dinner is at Tubby’s, a seafood restaurant that serves the sort of food you need bibs for and beer with high alcohol content. They’re seated next to another family like them, one who’s outgoing and friendly, and they make loud, raucous conversations for the more than two hours they take up space. They're sure to leave a nice tip.

It’s an easy going day. They do very little besides eat and walk around, but when Iris falls into bed with Barry later that night, she feels a contentment that she hasn’t felt in years, a joy that wraps around her so smoothly that she can’t even muster up the energy to be upset when Barry simply falls asleep beside her again. She knows, at least, that he’ll still be there in the morning.

************

On Friday, the mood is different this day, somber and doleful, going back to Central City and, thus, their lives, a weighted reality. Iris doesn’t see much of Barry that day. He and the boys, including her dad, go off to be men she supposes, and the women just lounge around on the beach until they get too hot and go inside to take naps.

Since it’s their last night, Joe plans a romantic dinner for Cecile somewhere on the island while the kids decide on one more night on the town. Iris goes to Linda’s room to get dressed and they decide to put on the nicest clothes they brought with them. While Iris is fashioning her braids into a bun at the back of her head, Linda is swiping on her favorite red lipstick. Iris’s makeup is already done, a soft look with a light pink lip that will leave her dress as the focus. She’s swiped some dark brown liner on her bottom lids to make her eyes look like molten whiskey when the sun hits them.

“So,” Linda starts, eyes on Iris through the mirror. She’s curled her hair in waves and the long tresses hang down her back, playing peekaboo with the tanned skin exposed by her white halter dress. 

“So?” 

“You and Barry are still pretty hot and heavy.”

Iris doesn’t answer right away. She tries to formulate an answer that will make sense to Linda, will make sense to even her, but she can’t. Because she’s starting to figure out what she feels and it’s scary—god, it’s fucking scary—and she doesn’t trust it at all.

“I’m doing this until we leave,” she says. “And that’ll be it.”

Linda doesn’t turn to her. “And you won’t even think about it?”

“I don’t know.” Iris shrugs. “I can’t think about it. I…” She moves over to where her dress is laid out on the bed and picks it up.

“I enjoy Barry. I do. But I can’t give him any more than that.” 

“Oh, Iris, I really wish you would see that it could be different.”

“Don’t say that like you feel sorry for me.”

Linda shakes her head. “I don’t. I get it. You know I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And you’re allowed to be safe about this. I just wish you’d,” she shrugs. “I wish you’d take the risk.”

“I’m really not sure that I can, Linda,” Iris tells her, licking her lips to give herself something to do, glancing at the makeup spread across the counter before finally holding Linda’s gaze.

“Alright,” Linda concedes. “I hear you. Again.”

Iris slides into her dress. It’s in a deep green color, off the shoulder, the bodice shirred, and the dress long with an m-split, her legs peeking out on both sides. Her simple caramel sandals, with a thin strap over her toes and around her ankle, matches the layered gold necklace around her throat. Linda’s shoes are similar, except in a rainbow of colors, and it’s so on brand that Iris smiles. As they leave the room, Linda presses her cheek to hers in exchange for a kiss that Iris drops at her temple, and then they go downstairs where the boys are waiting. 

Wally, Brandon, and Barry are all standing around the kitchen counter, empty shot glasses sitting around a bottle of vodka. They look good, in the way that good looking men always do when they throw on slacks and button down shirts. Barry does especially, his stark white shirt open at his throat, his sleeves rolled up. She lets her gaze trace the length of him, his lean body filling out his clothes nicely. When she reaches his face, she finds him looking at her too, a little bit slack jawed.

“So y’all have already started the party?” Linda questions.

“Y’all were taking forever to get ready,” Wally explains. He scowls at Linda even even as he shoots his sister a grin. “You look great, sis.”

“Thanks, Wally,” Iris smiles over at him even as she moves to stand by Barry. His hand immediately slides across the small of her back so that he can bring her closer. He leans down and presses his lips to the shell of her ear.

“You do look good,” he says, feeling up the curve of her spine and then back again.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, turning to him. She plants her hand on his chest, high enough that the tips of her fingers graze his throat. His eyes dart down to her mouth and back up again, and it occurs to Iris that in this week, the hours between when they’d woken up and now are the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other.

“Can y’all not?” Wally rolls his eyes as he thrusts full shot glasses at them over the counter.

“Even I have to agree with you there, Baby West,” Linda mumbles, and Iris doesn’t miss the look that passes between her and Barry. She wants to question it, but what does she say? 

And anyway, she’s grateful to Brandon, obviously their biggest shipper, who comes back with a, “leave them alone; they’re cute.”

That, Wally decides, deserves a pout and a kiss on the cheek.

“Alright, Wests and Guests,” Linda shouts to catch their attention, grinning at her own horrible joke. She holds her glass up. “To vacation.”

“To vacation,” they echo, and they throw the shots back.

It’s only a little after 7 by the time they all get downtown. It’s a Thursday night. For many, that’s the start of the weekend, so they’d seen plenty of Uber’s traveling off of Tybee Island, and watched plenty of people hop out downtown, dressed in a hodgepodge of clothing types: some dressed up like them, others in casual clothes that means they’re probably more focused on getting drunk and eating good than anything else.

They’re dropped off a couple blocks from the restaurant, Rocks on the River, a spot that overlooks the Savannah River. It’s a bit fancier than all of the places they’ve been on this trip, the place decorated in heavy wood and pretty red and gold accents. There isn’t much variety in the patrons. Most of them are couples in their late thirties and forties, with a spattering of octogenarian couples and one in their twenties. There are a couple parties like theirs and the hostess, a pretty dark skinned girl who keeps glancing between Barry and Iris, seats them in an area where a few other groups are sitting.

They’re seated at a booth that can still fit a couple more adults, Linda finding her space beside Iris, probably so she can make dirty comments the entire time. The waiter is a tall, rail-thin blond guy who somehow convinces them to all order the Georgia Peach cocktail as their first one, and then he disappears into the fold, leaving several menus in front of them.

“I know we’ve said it before,” Wally starts, after sipping from his glass and wincing at the strong taste, “that no one saw this coming. But it’s still so strange seeing the two of you together like this.”

Iris narrows her eyes at Wally and Barry just squeezes her hip where he’s got his arm wrapped around her lower waist. 

“I find it hard to believe,” Brandon says, “that no one thought _anything._ You guys are so…” He waves a hand at them as if to say that explains anything. Which, maybe it does.

“Oh no, people thought it,” Wally says.

Both Iris and Barry look at him.”What?”

“I remember once,” he says, fingering one of the buttons on his shirt. Iris takes a sip from her cocktail, the peach flavor a little bit overpowering, and she shivers a bit when Barry starts to write into the fabric against her hip.

“You were both at my robotics competition when I was in middle school. Barry you were a senior and Iris was a junior and I don’t know how you were both there. I must have gotten my wires crossed.” He looks at his boyfriend. “I would invite only one of them at a time to an event I had because if they were both there, they’d just embarrass me by arguing the entire time.”

“If only because Barry was always explaining stuff to me like I didn’t know what was going on.”

“I was trying to help break it down.”

Iris grits her teeth. “I didn’t need your help. I—.” She trails off at her brother’s expression.

“See what I mean?” he asks Brandon. “Anyway, they were both there for some reason, and at one point they disappear. During a break, a friend and I go out to find them and they’re in a hallway corner whisper yelling. My friend goes, ‘your sister and her boyfriend are always fighting,’ and then he just walks away.”

“It sounds like you two were a divorced couple,” Brandon laughs. “And Wally was the child you had to pretend to be nice for.”

“It definitely felt that way.”

Linda, who’d been sitting beside them quiet, merely watching, pipes up. “Even without the Wally aspect, it felt like they were a divorced couple.”

They all face her; she tosses her hair over her shoulder, and crosses her legs in an effort to get more comfortable, leaning onto the table.

“I’m only saying. Sometimes, we would take bets, about how long they could be in a room before arguing. It always varied so we’d always bet. Those bets pretty much provided the alcohol for all of my parties.” She laughs.

“Our friends would always say if you two just hooked up, we’d get some peace. Even Barry’s nerdy friends had started to catch on and thought it must have been some romance gone wrong for how vehemently you claimed to hate each other.”

“It wasn’t just a claim,” Iris mutters under her breath, but Barry hears her, she knows, because his hands still on her hip. Seconds later, he slides his arm from around her waist, and picks up his glass. He doesn’t drain it, but he might as well have, ice clinking against the glass when he’s done.

They share a couple more stories: Wally's favorite, the time when Iris had been sick and Wally was away at some camp, Barry had gone over to the Wests’ for some reason Iris can’t remember now and had taken pictures of Iris red nosed and puffy eyed and covered in tissue; Linda claimed that she always had a soft spot for their bonfire fights, standing around blazing fires and yelling, the possibility that one of them might push the other into the pit very real. Neither of them participate, though. It’s partly because Linda and Wally are having such a great time laughing at their expense. It’s also because the energy coming from Barry feels wrong, and it frightens her, how attune to his feelings she seems to be. He won’t catch her eyes when she tries to look at him, and he keeps his hands firmly in his lap now, the point of which she catches on to immediately.

Moreover, the stories Wally and Linda are telling takes her back to that place, to the anger and hurt that had plagued her in high school. To the insecurity that had seemed so much a part of her. Iris knows, on an intellectual level, that high school doesn't matter anymore. But it doesn’t always feel that way when it was there that she began to discover so much of herself and her core characteristics were solidified. She doesn’t always feel that way when all of her memories are tainted by how she’d felt then. She remembers all of these times they’re talking about. Each instance had been an almost out of body experience, deep enmity flooding through her from a place only Barry could ever access, from a place she only ever wanted to go when she would see Barry’s smug face frowning back at her too.

Dinner comes, elevated American food that takes burgers and chicken and adds enough toppings that they can convince you to pay twenty bucks for them. Iris bites into her hushpuppy, inhaling her food so that she doesn’t have to feel the absence of Barry’s hand on her, the absence of him pressing against her. Conversation drifts to more college reminiscing, and Iris does her best to engage in the conversation. Barry, though, doesn’t say much else.

After they fight over the check, Barry finally whipping out his card to shut them all up, they walk back out into the night, the soft breeze floating off the river whipping the fabric of her dress around her thighs. Wally and Linda start to talk about their next destination, but Barry walks closer to her.

“Walk with me a minute,” Barry requests, expression unreadable. 

She nods, clutching at the bag at her wrist. “Sure.”

She calls out to the group that has started down the street. “Barry and I will meet up with y’all in a minute, okay?” 

“You okay?” Wally asks, looking between them.

“Yeah. Just text me where you end up.”

Barry starts to walk away and she grunts before following after him, weaving through the crowded cobblestone streets. He takes them close to the river, stopping at one of the few unoccupied benches along the water.n He sits down, hands in his pockets and legs spread out, and Iris glowers, not taking a seat.

“Alright, Allen, what’s the problem?”

It’s a couple of seconds before he looks up at her, the sound of laughter heavy in the air. The ferry that they’d rode on the day before, the one that takes them along the river, sits docked right in front of them, quiet and empty. Around them, the air is still, tense and stretching thin.

“What are you talking about?”

“You. This,” she waves a hand in his direction. “This sulking you’ve been doing. You’ve been shitty all day.”

“I’m not sulking,” he says, eyes bouncing off the water to her. “I just figure you wouldn’t want the man you hated talking to you.”

She blinks at him, at the note of _something_ layered under his words.

“Barry, that was high school.” She sounds exasperated, mostly because she knows that it wasn’t _just_ high school. Up until two weeks ago, Barry Allen had firmly been on her shit list.

“Was it though?”

She shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed. She deflects. “What does that mean?”

Barry stands abruptly, body rigid, and he moves toward her. Iris’s instinct is to move back, taking a step on her heels, and that stops Barry up short. It’s like he’s suspended in movement, insanely still, except his eyes that are dark with anger 

(and maybe some hurt too, thought that can’t be true, right?)

and his hands that are clenching and unclenching by his side. 

She doesn’t know how they’ve gotten here. Even with the distance between them earlier in the day, it hadn’t felt like this. It hadn’t felt hurtful or stifling or confusing like this.

Barry moves back again, running his hands through his hair. “Let’s go back to the house.”

“No,” Iris protests. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to have this conversation in the middle of the street.”

Iris plants her hands on her hips. “What conversation is that exactly?”

“The one where you tell me what the fuck is going on!”

His voice raises on that last word, frustration threaded through it, and he takes in a deep breath, ignoring the people beside him who startle at his outburst.

“Iris…”

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go.”

They call for an uber and wait. 

Whatever conversation he wants to have, she doesn’t. Whatever has taken away the Barry from this trip—charming and carefree and sexy as hell—is not one she wants to deal with right now. Because that’s too much like real life, too much of what doesn’t feel good, and Iris still has one more day of ignoring the inevitable.

Barry seems adamant, though.

The uber drops them off in front of their airbnb and they enter the house. It’s quiet, her dad and Cecile must still be out, so they head up the stairs to their bedroom, Iris following his heavy footsteps.

When they’re inside and the door is closed, Barry moves fully into the room. Iris hovers near the door, not sure what to do or how he wants to proceed. She waits, watches him as he steps to the dresser and places his phone and wallet down.

“Iris, what are we doing?”

He leans against the dresser, hands back in his pockets, dark hair in disarray because he’d spent the entire car ride running his long fingers through it. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, and one would think that her way with words would manifest itself in some other term of transference. It’s what she keeps coming up with, however, and only serves to tell Barry that she does, in fact, know what he’s talking about.

“What are we _doing,_ West?” he asks again, stepping away from the dresser. His steps take him near the patio door, and Iris just watches, stalling.

“Why are you picking a fight with me, _Allen_? Is this about what I said at dinner?”

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Is it? Is that how you still feel, Iris? Do you still hate me?”

He spits the word out, makes it sound even nastier, even more sickening.

The energy in the room is dark, a little heady, the spiraling emotions they’re both feeling dancing up and ready to tango. It’s cold in here, the blue flame of bitterness rising up to nearly smother them. But the red edges of ardor are there, taking up residence in the middle, spreading out, attempting to overpowers what’s for so long been blue.

“I…” she starts, and stops. Because _no_ , she doesn’t hate him, but that’s all she’s ready to tell him. But she doesn’t have to finish, because he plows on.

“Because I need to know. You give me access and then you back away. You let me touch you, _taste_ you, and then we fight, like this dumb ass conversation we’re having right now. And it’s giving me fucking whiplash, Iris, this back and forth.”

“Oh, _I’m_ going back and forth?” She pushes away from the door. “You ask me to do this, out of the goddamn blue. _You_ kiss me, _you_ make comments and, fuck, taste me…”

The word, the memory of it, gives her pause.

“You have sex with me,” she continues. “And you don’t try to touch me again, but _I’m_ the one who’s giving mixed signals?”

“So that’s what you’re mad about?” He stops pacing near the patio door and turns to face her fully. He tilts his head, expression a touch cold. He moves towards her, and her steps back have much more to do with the gravel in his voice than what he might do to her.

“I’m not...mad,” she finishes, as her back hits the door. He keeps coming for her.

“You’re mad that I’m not chasing after you anymore?” he questions, coming to a stop when he’s close enough that she can see the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

“Oh, fuck you, Barry Allen.”

His eyes flash with something hot and dangerous. “That’s what you want, though, isn’t it? For me to fuck you?”

 _Yes,_ her body screams, even as the rest of her revolts at the fact that he’s able to do this to her. He’s made her so mad, and she doesn’t even know what for, only that she is and she’s something else too—something that feels like lust snaking its way into the haze of their dysfunction. Relationships are supposed to be calming, not this bobbing, weaving emotional spiral.

“God, you’re an asshole.”

He hums, nodding as if to say he agrees, and then he steps even closer, just so that his chest brushes against hers. That, just that, makes her nipples harden, pebbling against the fabric of her dress.

“Doesn’t mean what I said isn’t true,” Barry murmurs, the hardness in his voice retreating, only a little, but enough that he sounds more gruff than mad, and more resigned than either of those things. “All you had to do is ask for it. That’s all you ever have to do.” He reaches up to touch her, fingering the base of her neck. The faint caresses of the tips of his fingers make her shudder. “All you have to do is ask, Iris, and I’ll give you anything you want.”

She kisses him, because that’s the only thing she can think to do. He kisses her back hard, immediately, biting at her bottom lip to coax her open, not even bothering to soothe the sting with the slide of his tongue. She lets him, because this is what they do. They nip and bite at each other, invoking reactions that make sense to know one else but them; provoking each other until they combust, incinerating each other from the inside. 

She jerks when his hands hit the door above her head, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she deepens the kiss, tasting his mouth-the peach vodka still on his tongue-and she reaches down to touch him, her hands gripping him at the waist. She only holds onto him for a moment, body arching into him as he continues to plunder her mouth, but as he tears his lips away from her, moving down to her jaw, she starts yanking at his shirt. 

He takes on her wall, is the way she’ll think about him. Right next to the memory his face buried in her cunt as she muffled her screams in his parents’ basement, will be this memory, of him sexing her on this door. He hides his hands in the folds of her dress, running his fingers along the skin of her hips, tipping up as he searched for the barrier between him and her sex. There isn't one. When he fails to feel her pantyline, his hand stills on her waist and he groans into her neck.

“Fuck, Iris,” he murmurs, and he licks at her skin, twirling his tongue around when she releases a low moan, sucking on her like he wants to leave his mark. She’s busy too, yanking at the buttons on his shirt until his stomach is exposed enough that she can get at the button of his pants. 

This dance they continue is rushed at the same time that it feels like leisure, in the way that Iris feels every single thing he does to her. She feels every bite of his teeth on her skin, the nibbles that make their way down her chest, the hardening of her nipples he never quite gets around too. She feels the clenching of his stomach when she runs her nails along his abdomen, feels the heat nearly rising off his skin. That same sensation is there when she finally gets his pants undone and she reaches in to pull him out. He is solid in her hand, thick and hot, and she feels the throb of him when she runs her thumb over his slit, smearing the wetness on the head of his dick.

She feels when he pulls his hands down to cup both the cheeks of her ass, and then she’s being raised up, her dress bunching against her thighs, her hands bracing on his shoulders, her legs locking around his waist. They are both still fully dressed, but nothing seems so erotic as fucking a man with your shoes still on, so hurried, so _thirsty_ , that the reality of clothes shouldn’t stop the process of him sliding into where she is wet and aching. And she is, _god_ , she is. She can feel her own slick pooling down her thighs, feel her walls clutching around his too thin fingers because all she wants is his width. Then she has it. 

He slides into her in one thick motion, _“shit, bear,”_ and suddenly she feels fuller than she has ever felt in her life. Once he’s fully seated, he just lets her feel him for a moment, lets her adjust to how he is stretching her. He looks up at her, the wall and his wide palms holding her up, and she catches his gaze. He looks serious in the pale glow of the bedside lamp, a little bit in awe too at the circumstances. Mostly, though, he looks like a man in the throes of passion, like a man who wants nothing more than the woman who’s sopping wet and gripping his dick deep inside her body.

He fucks her against the wall.

He watches her as he does, eyes heavy lidded and pale, nearly glowing gray in the moonlight. He only lets her head fall back onto the door for moments at a time before he’s calling her attention back to him, muttering, _“no, no, watch what you do to me iris; watch how good you feel around me, baby,”_ and it’s one of those whispered declarations that makes her come. Well, it’s more than that. It’s the steady slide of him in and out of her body. It’s the brush of her clit against his pelvis each time he rucks into her. It’s also the way he’s holding on to her, how hard his hands are squeezing her hips, the remnants of him a distinct possibility as a bruise in her skin.

But she’s never thought that talking during sex could be sexy, but every word out of Barry’s mouth feels like encouragement, _“shit, girl; fuuuuuck, iris,”_ and he keeps watching her as he slams into her, eyes never straying from her parted mouth or her shuttered eyes. Maybe she's obsessed with the way he watches her too.

She can only say that he feels divine, transcendent. And when he rocks against something good inside of her—and keeps, keeps, keeps hitting it—she has to bite down on her own lip to stop herself from yelling out. When he finally follows her over, she savors the pulsing feeling as he spills into her, running her hands through his sweaty hair as they both slide to the floor on unsteady legs.

She doesn’t know how long they lie there, but he finally pulls out of her and helps her to her feet. Neither of them really try to fix their clothes.

“We didn’t use anything,” he says, but he seems too tired to be panicked.

“I’m on birth control,” she says. “And clean.”

He nods quickly. “Me too.”

Iris, still dizzy with the memory of him swelled inside of her, mumbles, “you’re on birth control too?” and it does what it’s supposed to do. It eases the tension. Barry laughs, and pulls her to the bathroom where he runs the shower.

They take turns quickly showering clean, each washing their faces and brushing their teeth in the mirror while the other showers.

When they fall into bed together and Iris lets herself snuggle into him, pressing her cheek to his bare chest, Iris feels secure in what she has to do.

************

The drive home seems a bit quicker than their ride down, the trees passing in a steady green blur. She makes conversation with Barry only in small bursts. She’s got work as an excuse, using the hotspot on her cell phone to plug into her laptop and read over several articles Allegra has sent in for review. Barry is catching up on a couple of the true crime podcasts that he likes, his desire to listen to gory stories about crime when he’s steeped in it at work, something Iris doesn’t understand.

For all intents, Iris enjoys this time spent with him, because she knows it’ll be the last time. She’s thought about it-—bout them being Barry and Iris for real. But they’d been Barry and Iris once before and navigating as just Iris after he was gone had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. Last night had reminded her that they’re too much, too up and down, too volatile. She recognizes, on some level deep in her core, that the passage of nearly two decades changes people, forces them to grow even when they don’t want to. She is not who she was then; Barry is not either. 

But she thinks that maybe that makes it worse. They’d gone from fighting to fucking to smiling into each other last night, and she knows that it is something she cannot do again. Because what she would want with Barry would be it; they would be _everything_ together. And that, Iris won’t recover from losing.

At least they’ll have this memory.

When he pulls up in front of her building, he throws on his hazard lights so that he can help her with her bags. He grabs them easily from the backseat and walks her to her door, where he plants the bag at her feet as she turns to tell him good-bye.

When he kisses her goodnight, she lets him. She clutches at the fabric of his t-shirt as he holds her against him, his large hands spread over her back. This kiss _feels_ different, though maybe it is just wishful thinking. In any case, she tastes words in this kiss; she tastes feelings and declarations. Maybe she tastes the words he so often tries to ink into her skin; maybe they are the words she wants him to say. She doesn’t know, won’t do much more to speculate. She’ll just take this final kiss—the sweetness of his tongue and the strength of his body and the vestiges of his love for her --and she’ll lock it up some place that she can only access weeks, months, years from now, when she’s over it. Over him.

He pulls away with a final peck to her lips and a quick squeeze to her waist, those two fingers at her chin.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

She nods, and then he disappears down the stairs.

He calls her the next day.

Iris doesn’t pick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Iris. One day, I'm sure she'll get it together.  
> This one was a goddamn doozy, and even my head hurts from the feels, but I hope this emotional ride was one you enjoyed.
> 
> Since it's almost midnight and I've been alternately working and writing since literally 6 am, I'll keep this brief. Thank you all so much for your continued support on this fic, especially since I don't know what the hell I'm doing.  
> Every one of your comments is read and nearly memorized. Y'all are truly da best.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle.
> 
> P.S: Please continue being safe out there. Wear masks and/or stay at home and keep your distance. Make good choices for the good of all of us:)  
> (Per usual, sorry for any typos. I tried!)


	10. X.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week of exposure...and some closure.

X.

_What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way; what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you_

When Iris finds herself in the news again, it is unexpected. 

She spends the week after vacation deep inside news stories. There’s a huge break in the Jenkins case, so Iris works diligently with Officer Barnes and her other contacts at CCPD to get the updated story out before _Picture News_ and any of the other news stations. There are some feel-good stories that she works with Allegra on: a spotlight on a new after-school community center for kids in a part of town that’s predominately Latinx; an article on a new soul food restaurant that’s opened up in town. There are a couple not so good ones she writes up too: the death of a prominent philanthropist; a fire that took out half an apartment building. She works with Kamilla to create some aesthetic changes to the website. Though Kamilla was initially hired just as a photographer, her graphic design degree has helped their website tremendously, making it appealing and accessible. Periodically, they slightly alter themes and colors, to keep it up to date and stunning. They spend hours altering the layout, making subtle changes to color and design.

She’s thankful for how insanely busy her week turns out to be. It means that she’s able to ignore the contact from Barry. He continues to try to get in touch, even despite messages gone unanswered. It’s not excessive, which Iris thinks would make it easier to continue to evade him. But Barry has never made anything easy where Iris has been concerned, and he does what he can to get her to notice.

The first couple of days he calls. He tries twice a day, once in the afternoon and one time in the evening. In the days following, he resorts to texts, at the same times that he had called, and it’s nothing more than that. But each time Iris sees his name written out in her notifications, something way too warm slides through her body, and her head starts to throb from the memories that assault her: his palm on the curve of her spine; his fingers writing hidden messages along the skin of her thigh; the thick slide of him inside of her.

She thinks that he knows what he’s doing. If he were to text her during the day, the messages would likely get lost in the shuffle. She would see them, sure, but she’d be able to ignore them too, to go about her day as she continues to interview and write. But the timing he adheres to means that she’ll no doubt see them, that she’ll no doubt anticipate them. In the morning, the messages come across as a tad bit angry, _Iris, why are you still running from me?; Answer me, Iris,_ popping up on her phone as she walks to work, earlier than usual, Jitters coffee in hand. At night, the messages seem more thoughtful, like he’s taken his thoughts of her from the day and wrapped them up short sentences: _Saw your article on the Jenkins case. You did a good job, Iris_ ; _Thinking about being back on the beach with you; I keep dreaming about you, seeing your beautiful body twisting up under me, how warm and wet you get; I miss you, Iris._

She wants to tell him to stop, but she knows that means she’ll have to talk to him. And the moment she does, all of her efforts to avoid him will go out of the window. Because she misses him. This, she has decided to admit to herself because it’s the only reason for the way her heart stutters when she sees them. 

His messages are the last ones she reads at night. After her shower, when she’s snuggled under her covers and her braids are wrapped in a silk scarf, with only the moon giving off a faint light through her white curtains, she opens the messages that she saves just for this. The words settle her, in a way that she doesn’t expect. It makes her breathe deeply, letting out the breathe she holds as reads them slowly.

It is in these minutes, these hours, that she reflects on her feelings for Barry. Here, in the darkness of her bedroom, under the safety of her covers, she understands that what she now feels for Barry is a facsimile of what she’d begun to feel for Barry in years past, but it is something deeper, more potent. Because now she knows what he’s like when he’s not being _Allen_ ; she knows what it’s like to receive his attention and his thoughts and his touch. She should be over it, over him. She’s grown, almost thirty, and it makes no sense that she’s still using high school to guide her actions. But it was then that she discovered these feelings, these almost abstract, wrenching feelings, and she’s never felt anything like them since, not until Barry Allen walked into her office and asked her to be his fake girlfriend. It’s been him, for as long as she’s noticed him, and it scares her, this he has been the only one to ever make her _feel._

Before her mother died, she’d watched her parents. In the five years before Wally was born and the two years after, she had watched the change in their relationship. She remembers, at two and three years old, the love they’d shared. They’d been happy and open, laughing together, sneaking kisses while Iris and Barry played, wrapped up in each other on Sunday mornings until Iris burst into their room to wake them up. And then it changed, at first gradually and then seemingly all at once. There were screaming matches on Sunday mornings instead, words whispered in anger whenever they were around others; times spent with Joe or Francine, but never the two of them. As she’s gotten older, she wonders if Wally was planned or not, if he was the result of some last ditch effort at reconciliation. And then cancer had come, swift and unrelenting, and then she was gone, and Iris had felt deep grief and constant confusion, wondering _who_ her parents really were.

It’s like that, with Barry. They’d gone from inside jokes to yelling at each other in the school courtyard. They’d gone from friends (though, when she thinks back on it, friends seem to be too tame of a word) to enemies, and mixed in had been something else stark and loud and confounding, heart pumping and eye flashing. When she adds in the last few weeks, the gala, dinner with his parents, the vacation, she can see how much like her parents they seem to be. There is a passion there that’s tottering; they argue and they fuck, they laugh and they yell, and Iris finds herself feeling way too much in too little a time span and it leaves her ragged.

But she _likes_ it, she’s discovered. It makes her feel, feel _alive,_ and a little bit unbalanced, like she’s in a perpetual freefall. She never knows what she’s going to get with him or who she’s going to be with him, and it’s scary and it’s exhilarating. He is able to play on each part of her, every string that connects to her heart, that makes her body hum. She is the instrument he plays, fingers strumming on her emotions until all she knows how to do is sing for him, to dance for him. And maybe, just maybe, if he had stuck around, she might be able to trust that he’d stop playing her long enough to catch her. But he didn’t. He let her fall when he decided that she wasn’t what she needed and how can she guarantee that this time, he won’t let her fall again?

************

As a distraction, she decides to spend a couple hours at a baseball game with Linda. Before Iris had lured her away from _The Central City Post_ , Linda had written sports for them. It's always surprised people, when she tells them, that Linda has an intense love for sports. For as long as Iris can remember, Linda has enjoyed few things unabashedly, among them sports and gossip. Cocktails and women came a bit later, but sports still remain one of her favorite things. Iris doesn’t always get the appeal, but she does enjoy going to the city’s minor league baseball games. The energy at them is unparalleled, another reason for Central City’s citizens to root for the home team. On Thursday night, they’re playing Star City, and Iris carefully walks down the stairs to see a huge crowd. Linda already has seats for them, and Iris is carrying two beers from the local brewery, still dressed in the jeans and pumps from work.

“You would think this was a professional game,” Iris mumbles as she sits in the empty seat next to Linda. Linda picked up the snacks so she trades one of the beers for a container of nachos with jalapeños. Linda has already eaten half her hot dog.

“It’s the closest we’ve got,” Linda says. “Plus, they’re pretty good and the games are always fun.”

Iris nods in agreement, sitting her beer in the cup holder and digging into the nachos.

For the first couple innings of the game, they don’t speak much. Linda’s attention is split between the game and her phone, the constant vibrating followed by Linda’s grin.

“Who are you texting?” Iris wonders, after the third or four time she catches Linda smiling down at her phone.

“A friend,” is the vague response.

“A _friend_ has got you grinning like a fool?” Iris nudges her with her shoulder. “C’mon. You’ve got a new friend and you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s nothing real yet. We’re just hanging out now. It’s going very slow and and I don’t want to jinx it.”

Iris chews a nacho and swallows before she speaks. “Okay, I get that. Can I at least know her name? Where you met her?”

“Her name’s Amanda. We actually met at the gala.”

Iris thinks back to that night, sifting through memories of walking hand in hand with Barry and the feel of his mouth on hers for the first time. She remembers a beautiful dark skinned woman with dreads that Linda had skipped off to talk to, and Iris smiles. She knows that her own drama she hasn’t done the best job of being a friend to Linda and she makes a note to take her for brunch sometime soon, to really catch up.

“You’ll let me know when you stop going slow?” She wonders.

“Of course.”

Linda turns back to the game and Iris settles into her seat, eating her nachos and sipping her beer. She doesn’t watch the game much; instead she pushes Linda’s new friend aside and catches onto another thought, the ever present worry of work. Running a newspaper is obviously so different from merely working at one. So much of her job is logistics now: making sure that they keep a steady stream of revenue ads, updating their social media accounts to stay visible, finding stories that are important but not copies of what every other news site is doing. She loves the challenge, but it leads to constant thought of how she can make it bigger, better, a place where her employees feel not only like they're valued, but like they’re doing good work.

For Iris, it is imperative that this works. She’s both relieved and dismayed that since she’s been fake dating Barry, there has been an increase in traffic to her site, an uptick in followers to her Instagram and Twitter accounts. Both Allegra and Kamilla venture through those accounts more than she does, but she has alerts that keep her abreast of the comments and mentions. Iris is almost sure that Allegra shuts down any of the negative comments before she gets to them because in the past few weeks, there’s been more positive ones than she would expect. There is dialogue about some of the more topical stories—the Black Lives Matter protests in and around Central City, the town hall to discuss some of the immigration policies in the city. There are some conversations about stories on crime and politics, just thoughts by the constituents about what’s going on in their city. It is finally happening, she thinks, the fruits of their labor so close that she can touch it, _taste_ it, hopefully mold it to what she wants it to be.

Still, she can’t discount the fact that so many of her recent numbers are thanks to her so-called relationship. They came to check her out and many of them stayed, she assumes, because of her content. But there are still the occasional comments about Barry. They want to know everything, how they met, when they got together, why they don’t post about each other. It brings him back top of mind, though he’s never really that far away, and she has to decide what she’s going to do about him. Her rather vague acknowledgement of her feelings for him doesn’t give her a path to follow. Her main point of action, ignore Barry, only seems to highlight the fact that he’s not easily ignored, or even forgotten. He’s making sure she thinks of him and she is, so much so that her attempts to be distracted only take her so far, only seems to prove that Barry Allen is the man she’s in love with.

They’re at the bottom of the 7th inning when Iris’s phone sounds in her pocket. She blinks at Barry’s name on the screen, and she, slowly, opens the message.

_Barry: You look beautiful._

She snaps her head up, looking around, figuring she’ll see Barry’s face peering at her through the crowd. Before she can seek him out, he sends her another message. And then another, and she reads them as they come in.

 _Barry:_ _I’m not stalking you, I promise._

_Barry: Cisco and I were at the game and I saw you. We had to leave because we just got called into a case._

_Barry: I wanted to come over and say hi, but my string of unanswered messages tell me that wouldn’t be a wise decision. So I wanted to let you know you look beautiful._

_Barry: And that I miss you._

“You’re very popular.”

She hears Linda’s voice over the sound of her heart in her ears. She looks up at her friend, whose face is scrunched in intrigue. 

“Who’s that?” Linda asks, looking down at Iris’s phone. “And why are you looking at the phone like that?”

She leans over to peer at the phone sitting in Iris’s hand.

“Barry’s texting you,” she says, like she’s explaining something Iris doesn’t know. “It looks like he’s been texting you a lot.” She grabs the phone out of Iris’s hand and swipes up. Her friend, who’s always been quick on the uptake, dips her head in frustration. “Iris, are you ignoring Barry?”

“Of course not,” Iris says and lifts her cup to her mouth. She chugs the rest of the beer.

“The very long string of gray messages tells me that’s untrue.”

“I’ve been busy, is all.”

Linda nods. She’s quiet for a few moments, and Iris thinks she’s given her attention back to the game. Iris looks back down at her phone, reading through the messages again, breathing deeply in an attempt to remind herself that Barry doesn’t, in fact, control her emotions. What she’s finding, unfortunately, is that it’s a futile effort.

She instead tries to latch on to the atmosphere of the game around her. There is the sound of people talking and laughing, loudly speaking over one another. Underneath is the crack of baseballs hitting the bats, and then the inevitable round of jeers that follow. There’s the smell of hot dogs and fried dough and faint traces of spilled beer. Baseball games always seem more brilliantly colored: the perfectly shaped diamond like emerald, their uniforms stark white even under the dirt. But it doesn’t take away the fact that she wishes she had been able to see a glimpse of Barry. Or that Linda is done letting her jumble this all up.

“I’ve been trying to let you handle this the way you feel is right,” Linda starts. Iris turns to look at her, but Linda eyes are still out on the field. The man at bat, tall and dark, the name _Gonzalez_ written across his jersey, bats out into left field before Linda continues.

“I don’t know everything that happened with you and Barry. When I came along, y’all had already declared war and you let me settle into the place he used to occupy.”

Iris frowns. “Linda that’s not…”

She holds up a hand to stop her. “No, I know what we are to each other now. I also know how long it took us to get here. And I know why.

When we first met, almost every single thing we talked about was Barry. Sure, we talked about other boys and school and blah blah. But Barry was such an integral part of you that there was very little doubt about how you actually felt about him, despite your talk of otherwise. And then you stopped talking about him completely, unless he was around, and that only told me that the feelings had rooted deeper.”

Finally, Linda faces Iris. Iris can’t exactly tell what emotion that’s on her friend’s face, but she knows it’s one on the same wheel as sympathy, maybe even pity. She reaches across the arm rest and grabs Iris’s hand. Iris looks down at their fingers clutched together, her tawny pink painted nails holding Linda’s golden, orange painted ones.

It’s true that Iris had initially grabbed on to Linda because she no longer had Barry. Oh, they’d hit it off the first time they’d talked, right in Mr. Wilson’s Algebra 1 class, but Iris knows that if Barry had still been in her life, they might not have gotten as close as quickly, as close for so long. She’s grateful to Barry for that, at least, because even if Barry is able to make her _feel_ in ways that no one else can, Linda _knows_ her like no one else does. 

Iris would like to think that she’s well-adjusted, that she’s mature and logical. But she isn’t, at least not in her personal life. Work Iris is everything she wishes she could be all the time, but as Linda reminds her every time she has to talk some sense into her, there’s some real work she needs to do.

“You’re in love with him, Iris,” Linda says softly, proving what she knows to be true. “You’ve been in love with him for as long as I’ve known you, and nothing has been able to take that feeling away. School couldn’t do it, despite all the hours you spent on the paper and in the library. Eddie couldn’t do it, which is why you couldn’t go with him to Starling. And the _Citizen_ can’t do it either.”

A loud cheer sweeps the crowd, and Iris gazes back at the game. She doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t even care, but looking away from Linda’s warm brown eyes are the only way that she can process, that she can hear and understand and accept what Linda is saying to her.

“I know,” she says, after some time, just as softly. “You’re right.”

“So you need to _talk_ to him, Iris. Really talk. Because whatever he did can’t be enough to keep you apart when you still feel like this, literally 15 years later.”

Iris squeezes Linda’s hand. “You’re right,” she says again. “Maybe I do love him.”

She pulls her hand away and places it in her lap, starts to pick absently at her nails. And then she voices the thing that’s been pestering her since he walked away from her. 

“But what if it’s only me that feels this way? What if…” Iris takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “He left me once, Linda. He just walked away from years of friendship like it was the easiest thing in the world. Having sex on a vacation doesn’t mean love. Claiming to miss me doesn’t mean love. What if he doesn’t…”

It’s one thing to acknowledge that she is in love with Barry. But it’s something altogether different to put herself in a position to be rejected again. Even in denial, she’s always thought that her feelings were once-sided. Sure, Barry smiles at her like he _sees_ her and he whispers words of endearment into her ear when he’s wrapped around her. Sure, he glides his fingers across her body like he’s trying to pencil constellations into her skin, and he fucks her like it means something. But how can she be sure that it means what she wants it to?

“Oh Iris, love.” Linda leans over and wraps both of her arms around Iris’s shoulder. Iris leans into her, inhaling the rosewater shampoo she knows that Linda uses. 

“You’re both goddamn idiots,” Linda mumbles into Iris’s hair. “Fucking _talk_ to him. You’ll see how wrong you are.”

************

Iris knows she told Linda that she’d talk to Barry, but she hadn’t planned on so soon. She is at her father’s house the night Barry forces her hand.

Friday night, a full week after they’ve returned, finds her on her dad’s couch. She’d come right after work so she’s in a simple yellow silk t-shirt dress and her strappy multicolored sandals are lying on the floor. The cooking channel is playing, Guy Fieri riding around the country in his red muscle car and eating food _._ The smell of frying chicken is heavy in the air, and Wally is sprawled out on the couch beside her, his legs spread wide enough that she can tuck her feet under his thigh. They’re both on their phones, Iris sending out some last minute emails and catching up on her social media feeds, Wally probably doing the same thing. It’s the first night she’s gotten to simply lie around all week, and it feels good, to be here with the two men she loves the most.

It’s a scene that reminds her of their childhood. They’d spend plenty of Sunday nights on the large overstuffed sectional, Joe stretched out along the L, Wally and Iris taking up the rest of the space. The living room is homey; there is a mix match of furniture that lends itself to long hours spent cuddled up on the couch, alternately watching television and napping. The heavy dark furniture, bookshelf and tv stand and coffee table, is balanced with softer pieces, the huge cream sectional and stark white walls, and fresh flowers that Cecile changes as needed. It’s as homey as it was when her mother was alive, but different because their family is changed and it reflects that. Still, other than her own home and her office, it’s one of the places she feels most comfortable, because it’s where Wally fights with her for space on the couch, and her dad cooks homemade meals, and Cecile shakes her head in joy at being a part of them.

Tonight, it’s just her, her brother, and her dad. Joe is cooking up a simple meal of fried chicken and french fries, a fatty meal that Iris only lets herself indulge in sometimes. There’s probably a salad on the table too, because Cecile has got her dad trained, and she likes that, for the moment, it’s just the three of them. While so many families take grief and pull apart, the death of Francine West had brought them closer together. Iris had picked up some of the slack, caring for Wally as a mix of mother and sister, their baby-sitters acting as more adults in the room as opposed to any authoritative figure. They’d had to lean on one another. For a while, Joe had had to cut hours and though that was hard on them financially, it meant more time with the parent she still had and the support of a caring family unit. So that feeling is always present in this house and it’s a solid way to end her week.

“Why aren’t you with Barry?” Wally asks, completely out of the blue. At the moment, Guy is watching a tiny Korean woman make some sort of dumpling stuffed with meat and cheese before it’s deep fried, and it takes Iris a minute to turn away from the screen.

“What?” She blinks at her younger brother.

“With Barry,” he says. “He’s at that leukemia benefit with Oliver and Thea Queen. Why didn’t you go?”

Iris knows the benefit; it’s held every few years in Central City to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. She’s gone in the past, only once when she was still working for _Picture News._ In a bid for more stories on her own, Allegra had asked if she could cover it. Iris had agreed, glad to give her more responsibility. She hadn’t known that Barry would be there, though that was such a ridiculous overlook on her part. He hadn’t been in town the last time Central City had hosted the event, but his parents usually go and it makes sense that he would too.

“I didn’t want to go,” she murmurs, hoping she sounds as casual as she doesn’t feel right now at the mention of Barry.

“Why not? It’d be perfect for the _Citizen.”_

Iris inclines her head in agreement. “Allegra is there on behalf of the paper. Plus, if I’m there, it might compromise her own take on the event and I wanted to give her the opportunity to feel like I’m not watching her.”

She feels Wally’s eyes on her for a moment before he hums and goes back to thumbing through the pictures on his phone. She watches Guy at some bar that’s trying to elevate American bar food, and she’s sucked back in for a moment.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” he says. “Some of the gossip rags are asking where you are.”

It only takes her a moment before she starts panicking. She opens back up the Instagram app on her phone and goes to the page for _The Tea_ , one of the social media sites that keep watch of The Who’s Who in Central City and Star City too. The draw of Oliver and Thea add something too good to pass up and it’s no doubt that with them there, Barry is getting attention too.

Their friendship is one that still baffles Iris. She’s known of their relationship since some time back in high school, when they were no longer friends and deeply entrenched on their opposite sides. By then, Barry had started to show up more at parties...around the same time that he’d seemed to have gotten taller, and his eyes had gotten greener—or maybe they were bluer—and his voice had gotten deeper, a lazy, grumbling sound that only ever heightened to show off his nervousness. 

She remembers the very first time she’d seen the two of them together. The day had been another normal one in Central City, friend groups mixing because there were only so many places teenagers could even go. A huge group of kids had been down at the lake, soaking in the sun on the last day of spring break. Linda and Iris had been sitting along the bank, sunbathing on a huge rock that’d sat at the edge of the lake, bikini tops on and tiny jean shorts unbuttoned to show the hint of their matching bottoms. Iris’s hair had been piled up on her head, some of her natural curls falling out of the haphazard bun.

“I know that I don’t particularly like boys,” Linda had started, “but Oliver Queen is definitely fine as hell.”

“Oliver Queen?” Iris had frowned, sitting up to see what Linda was talking about. When she’d turned, there he had stood, in nothing but a pair of swim trunks, next to Barry Allen who’d had on trunks and a flimsy t-shirt, looking particularly lanky next to the hunk of Oliver. 

Iris could admit that the eldest Queen _was_ good-looking, in that overly muscled, frat boy hair sort of way. And, in the school that Iris and Linda attended, boys like him were all a dime a dozen. Linda and Iris were two of the handful of girls of color at the school and the boy pool was even shallower. In that, most of the boys looked like Oliver, all trying to one up each other despite the fact that it meant they ended up clones of one another. A lot of the other boys looked like Barry, except less pretty, which despite herself, she'd noticed as she gave him the once over. He wasn’t on the track team, but she knew that he liked to run, memories of him using the track after practice filtering through. It meant that his legs looked strong and that there was muscle on his arms, some breadth in his shoulders. It all seemed to work well with his face, strong jawed and pale, with that straight nose and those dark moles playing at connect the dots along his cheeks. And then there were his eyes, the color green like seafoam, but with darker hints of blue that seemed to take over when he was annoyed with her, which was more often than he wasn’t.

As if he had felt her watching him, he'd turned in her direction. His eyes had flashed something dark at her, but his mouth lifted at the corners in an arrogant smirk, one that’d become a staple in the months during his senior year. She’d scowled at him, and his smirk widened.

“Iris,” she’d heard Linda call. “Are you even listening to me?” Linda hit her arm to grab her attention.

Iris had pulled her gaze quickly away from Barry. “Say what?”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nobody,” she’d rushed to say.

“Nobody, huh?” Linda said, eyebrow lifting. “Nobody like Oliver Queen? Or nobody like Barry Allen?”

Iris rolled her eyes, a natural inclination whenever Linda brought him up. “Screw Barry Allen.”

Only a prickle along her skin had alerted her to his presence. And then his voice was in her ear. “If you keep saying that like that, I’m gonna think you want to, West.”

Iris was almost certain she’d growled at him as she jumped up from her spot on the rock, twirling to face him, her hands planted on her hips.

“Why are you even here, Allen?”

He’d shrugged. “Oliver was in town. He wanted to see what we do around here.”

Iris had hummed, and turned her attention to Oliver. By then, Linda was standing beside her, and she could hear the murmurs of the girls around them finally noticing Oliver.

“And he wanted to hang out with you?” The question had been tossed over her shoulder, and she’d looked into Oliver’s baby blue eyes and noticed the apparent amusement in them.

She doesn’t know why that matters now. Only that she guesses she’s surprised that the two of them still speak, despite pictures of them together when Barry was at college in Star City. That means of course they’d be together at the benefit, if they were both going. And of course it’s news that they’re both there, tall and gorgeous and rich—although the Allens, even with their inherited business money, aren’t nearly as rich as the Queens. 

It’s then that she finds the page she’s searching for. Whoever runs it must be at the event because they’ve got pictures of many of the patrons inside. This benefit is slightly more relaxed than the gala she’d gone to. Where that one catered to an older crowd, this gala is made for those still in the limelight, the Queens and the Palmers and the like, those who work, but in their families companies or as art dealers because they don’t actually need a career. She swipes through until she spots what she’s looking for.

The picture features Barry and Oliver standing inside the venue near the bar. They both have drinks in their hands, and they’re wearing tuxedos. She makes a passing glance over Oliver, who’s attractive in that tortured, brooding way that kids with absent families tend to be. For a long time, he’d played the douchebag card, on the other side of the spectrum, but some boating accident had brought him back a different man. And you can see it, there in the dark blond scruff covering his jaw, the hard set of his mouth, something shadowed in his light blue eyes. He’s in a nicely tailored tuxedo, the material stretching over broad shoulders and a firm chest, and Iris wonders if he just works out for several hours a day. Barry stands beside him, slightly shorter, leaner, but still able to hold his own in his tuxedo too. Oliver has a hand clasped over Barry’s shoulder and they’re both holding drinks and smiling, two friends enjoying the night out.

It’s almost a shock to see Barry—it’s amazing what just a few days apart can do to one’s biorhythms. He looks like he did the last time she saw him, except _more_ , more handsome, more virile, more suave. This Barry, the one he becomes when he has to show his face, is the one that she finds herself missing the most. He’s personable and charming, and he’s the one that would always make others wonder how he got Iris West riled up enough to yell. The other parts of him are present too, though, the lot of confidence present in his grin, the hint of mischief in his eyes.

She looks past the caption, and reads through the long caption. “The Tea _caught up with hotties Oliver Queen and Barry Allen. It’s been years since we’ve seen these two together, and it’s always fun to see how sweet CSI Barry and stoic businessman Oliver play off of one another. They both seemed to have come sans girlfriends. Oliver’s sweetheart Felicity Smoak is absent, though that’s not so uncommon as the tech wiz is busy running her own billion dollar business. Barry Allen’s new lady, newspaper newcomer Iris West, is nowhere to be found and another writer from her newspaper is here in her stead. Trouble already? We’ll find out just for you. Stay tuned for more!”_

Iris shakes her head before she takes a deep breath and presses on the comments. 

“Oh fuck,” she mumbles under her breath. There are the ones she expects, comments about how good looking they both are. There are some vaguely inappropriate ones, some deeply inappropriate ones, ones that mention what they’d do with the two of them and some condiments better suited for a carnival. But deeper are the ones about her, popping up in between comments praising Felicity. They say about as much as she would expect: she’s just as busy as Felicity; Barry finally realized she was only after his money; he realized he could do better.

“It’s still weird,” Wally says, bringing Iris’s attention away from her phone, “that people care about what Barry’s doing, and by extension, you.”

“Oh, thanks,” Iris responds, kicking at him, although that’s the exact thing she was just thinking. She’s always wanted to be behind the news, not _in_ it, and she thinks that maybe that might explain some of her missteps when it’s come to this whole thing.

Wally swats at her legs. “I don’t mean it that way.” He sits his phone face down in his lap, and then looks at her from the other end of the sofa. “You both do great work, right? Barry helps to solve these crimes and still helps out with the Robotics clubs back at the middle and high school and he mentors a bunch of kids. You’ve created this entire online newspaper by yourself and it’s amazing. And sure, I get that Barry is good-looking and he’s the son of the family that does all this good for the community, so maybe it makes sense that people care about what he’s doing. But, really, in how many places do CSIs and newspaper editors get this much screen time?”

That, Iris can only answer with the fact that people are genuinely nosy. She’s been interested in telling the news since she joined the newspaper her freshman year of high school.There, everything had been news: who was dating who, sports teams, parties, the extracurricular activities students were involved in. In the whole of Central City, these same things seem to hold true. More than that, Central City is small and guided by influence. Whoever calls the shots—money (old and new), community leaders, even newspaper editors and bloggers who have a say in how others are perceived—get spotlights.

Everything is news, in the same way she’d experienced at the high school newspapers, and they are always looking for new faces to write about. For the moment, she is that. She’d hoped that this fake relationship would keep her out of it as much as it could, but she seems to have underestimated the media, something she’s ashamed to admit to.

“It’s the way of Central City,” Iris says aloud. “News is whatever keeps people’s interest. Sure, people care about crime and politics, but that’s all so sad that people need outlets. Worrying about other people’s drama gives them that. Barry and I are news now because it’s summer and nothing is happening. There are very few local elections and people only want to hear so much about corrupt businessmen or men being poisoned because it’s depressing. Soon, Ray Palmer will do something fascinating or Harrison Wells will make some scientific discovery, and then Barry and I won’t be news anymore.”

“What’s this about the news?” Joe wonders as he rounds the corner, dressed in old jeans and a shirt, a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder.

Wally is quick to respond. “Barry’s at the leukemia benefit, and they’re all wondering about where Iris is and if she and Barry have already called it quits.”

That makes her dad stand a little straighter, a curious expression crossing his face.

“Have y’all called it quits?” He locks his eyes on hers and Iris swallows, licks her lips before she answers.

“No,” she says, slowly. “Why would you ask that?” 

He shrugs, eyes still on hers. “I’ve seen Barry a couple times this week. He doesn’t seem like a man who just came back from a relaxing vacation with his girlfriend.” 

Somehow, Iris had forgotten about this part of her dad, the inquisitive and intuitive nature that made him a great detective and now police captain, that makes him a great father. He holds her gaze, head tilted, assessing.

“We haven’t seen much of each other this week,” Iris tells him. “It’s been a busy week at the paper and he’s had cases to catch up on. It’s nothing.”

“You know you can talk to me,” he says. “About anything. Including Barry.”

Iris stands, her feet dropping to the cool, hardwood floors. Her dress dances around her thighs as she walks over to her father. She sidles up to his side, placing both her hands on his shoulder.

“I know that, daddy. And we’re good. Going from being best friends to barely speaking to dating is a huge adjustment, but we’re getting it together.”

He nods slowly, still unsure if he should believe her or not. It’s the way he’s been looking at her since she moved out of the house, like he’s not always sure if she’s telling the truth when she says she’s fine, like he’s ready to sweep her back into her childhood home at a moment’s notice. When she’d first started college, it’d annoyed her. She’d thought that maybe he didn’t trust her. But she’s come to learn that that’s just how her dad is: protective and watchful, constantly ensuring that everyone around him is comfortable, is happy.

She presses a kiss to his cheek. “We’re gonna be good, dad. Promise.” 

************

She’s in an Uber on her way home, scrolling through her feed again, when she sees a picture of herself and Barry that she doesn’t recognize. It’s startling, to see herself on the screen, especially in a picture she hasn’t known was taken. But more than the shock is the picture itself, a snapshot of Barry and Iris that would put to rest any doubt the masses might have about their relationship.

At first glance, it has the potential to be vulgar. Barry is sitting at the edge of the shore, the ocean just meters away from his feet, only in his pair of swim trunks, droplets of water glistening on his tanned skin. Iris is straddling his waist, her sunflower suit bottoms riding high on her thighs, her knees locked around his hips. His hands are at her waist too, long fingers pale against her sun darkened skin. But anyone paying attention can tell that it’s more than that. Because Iris has both her hands on his shoulders and she’s leaning back, enough that you can see the gold embellishment that joins the cups of her top. And they’re both laughing, Iris’s eyes closed as she faces the sky, the tips of her braids brushing the sand, Barry’s grin softer as he stares up at her.

They look... _happy._ The picture is so clear that Iris doesn’t understand how she didn’t know it was being taken—and she’s sure she’ll have Linda to kill for it—and every single part of it screams joy, satisfaction. The sky is such an electric shade of blue, the water sparkling. The black of his shorts seem sharper and the rows of her teeth seem whiter. Even the sand is such a blinding tan that it would all look staged if not for the crinkle in his eyes. That’s real; she can tell. She knows this curve of his mouth, the softness of his look, the way he leans into her. She knows that her laugh isn’t feigned either. In their hours on the beach, as he had told her various facts and built sand castles with kids, she found herself laughing at him, _with_ him, in a way she hadn’t thought they’d ever get back to.

It’s the caption, though, that makes her breath catch in her throat. She reads it once, and then again, and each time, the words seem to saturate, filling her up and then spreading out, covering her until she feels like she’s drenched in it. Her heart beats louder at the same time that it slows down, a steady pounding that she feels in every part of her. Her knees are weak, even though she’s sitting down, and she has to clutch at her phone to prove that she still has feeling in the tips of her fingers. She reads it one more time.

_We think of our emotions like they’re these unique, personal phenomena, that no one has ever felt what we have felt. There is a basis in science for every emotion we feel. Anger, love. As a scientist, I know there’s nothing magical about what makes us feel something for someone else. But then I see her smile. Man, that cannot be science._

She doesn’t think before her fingers are flying in her messages. 

_Iris: Allen..._

His message is immediate, like he’s been waiting since the moment he posted it. 

_Barry: Come see me._

The message ends with a pin drop of his location. For a long moment, she just stares at her phone screen. She cannot put a name to what she’s feeling or even what she’s thinking, her head cloudy, like a layer of plastic film over a pair of lenses. Even after her conversation with Linda, she’d tried to tell herself that Barry did _not_ have a say in her feelings, that he didn’t actually have this powerful of an affect on her. But if she’s learned anything since this all started, it’s that any claim she makes in regards to her emotions towards Barry is untrue. Since she was five years old, Barry has been to her what no one else has. It is him, who has always been able to make her laugh with abandon, cry in frustration, get angry at the drop of a hat. Twenty years has apparently changed nothing.

_Iris: Fine._

His responding smirking emoji nearly makes her change her mind.

Barry lives in the heart of downtown. When she’s dropped off, it’s at one of the high rises, apartments nestled in the business district. She lives only miles away, but it’s amazing the difference a district makes. She’s dressed a little dumpy for the vibe, her t-shirt dress and chunky heeled sandals not necessarily suited to the stark lines and the wide open windows of the building. It’s the kind of place that makes you think of pressed pants and silk blouses, the attire of the women strutting down the street next to men in tailored slacks and hundred dollar haircuts.

There’s a keypad outside of the door and Iris punches in the code that Barry sent to her. She walks along the gleaming hardwood floor towards the elevator. Soft music is playing inside, carpeted floor muffling her steps, and she presses the button for the fifteenth floor. She watches the buttons light up—1, then 6, then 13–trepidation settling over her.

When she steps out of the elevator, Barry is waiting for her, and the look of him stops her up short. He’s still in his tuxedo, though his tie is hanging loose and the top few buttons of his shirt are undone. He’s obviously been running his hands through his dark hair and the faint beard he’s sporting, the shadow of hair along his jaw, above his mouth, sends a swoop of lust to her core.

Iris steps out of the elevator, but she doesn’t move any further. She watches him watch her, Barry giving her that long, slow look over that she can’t always read. But right now she’s not trying to, because it’s been a week since she’s seen him, and her body is responding to him. His hands are in his pockets as he leans against the wall, and Iris thinks that he looks practically debauched—like tangled bedsheets and wet thighs, and gasping moans against sweat soaked skin—with his lips pink and his eyes hooded.

She doesn’t know how long they stand there, staring. A cursory glance at her surroundings show her a quiet, carpeted hallway. The walls are painted a calming beige and the air smells sweet, like vanilla. Bronze wall sconces light the halls, and the only show of individuality are the personal touches people have put outside their doors, decorative floor mats and wreaths and even a few potted plants. 

“You’re still alive,” he says, when he finally speaks. “I’d wondered.”

Iris folds her arms across her, and shakes her head. “Is that why you wrote this? To see if I was alive?”

He blinks at her, tilts his head as if he’s trying to figure something out. Then he nods to the right without answering her. “Come on.”

He starts down the hall and she figures she has no choice but to follow after him. His apartment is at the end, and he’s one of the people with a plant sitting outside of his door. It isn’t particularly tall, but the waxy looking leaves in various shades of green make the outside of the apartment feel more homey. She doesn’t find it as odd as she thinks she should, and she steps inside as he pushes his unlocked door open. 

Inside the apartment is even more telling of the layers of Barry Allen. The space isn’t quite as big as her own apartment—she knows that hers is an anomaly—but it is spacious and well-lit, and she finds herself looking around before he even tells her it is okay to. The room is done in shades of cream and olive, the lighter colors offset with chocolate brown furniture and burgundy red accents. Around a television is a large coffee colored sectional, the leather couch bracketing a glass coffee table on three sides. The table sits on rug with vaguely geometric shapes, canvas prints in near matching prints lined high on one wall. Below them is a bookshelf filled to the brim with titles like _The Gene: An Intimate History_ and _A Short History of Nearly Everything._ The massive television fights for dominance with the wall length windows that give a fantastic view of Central City’s skyline. 

Iris walks toward it, fingering a blanket thrown across the back of the sofa. From their position up, Iris can see the hustle and bustle of Friday night. Her own apartment is on the other side of downtown, in the arts district, where live music and street fairs are the norm. On this side, nightlife looks like rooftop bars and breweries, the fancier hotels and convention center events promising a steady stream of patrons. People are hopping out of Ubers on their way to late dinners and bars without drinking specials.

“Want something to drink?”

She jumps when she hears Barry’s voice in her ear. She turns, noting the two glasses of dark liquor in his hands. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He offers her a glass. “Whiskey?”

Iris looks at the glass, at his long fingers wrapped around the etched tumblers and back up at him. “We’re having whiskey?”

He shrugs and thrusts the glass into her hand. “Feels like that kind of night.”

She glances around his apartment. “Fitting,” she says. “This seems like a whiskey type of place.”

He nods. “I moved here about five years ago. My first adult apartment. My dad got me this aged whiskey as a housewarming present. Told me to only bring it out on special occasions.”

At that, Iris pauses. She catches Barry’s gaze, and runs a slow tongue across her bottom lip. Barry’s eyes flicker down to watch the action, unwavering as she asks, “And this is a special occasion?”

“Could be.” Barry takes a sip of his drink and runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Want to sit?”

He gestures to his couch, and she nods, because what else should she do. She is in unchartered territory. There is no doubt that tonight is the night that it happens, that they lay it all out on the table. This entire week has finally forced her hand. Well, no, not just this week; it all has: the years of open animosity, of pent up lust; the tension manifesting itself in yelling matches and haughty one-liners; the underlying waves of deeper emotion that reads like fear and panic because of how strong their holds were on her. And...maybe on him too. She’s not wholly sure if he meant it, what he wrote, but she figures it’s time to find out.

She sits beside him, sinking into the butter soft leather of the couch, crossing her feet at the ankles as she faces him. She finds him watching her again, like he’s trying to commit the look of her to memory. 

“You know I don’t like when you do that,” she says, glancing away.

The feel of movement next to her brings her attention back, his knee now brushing hers.

“Don’t like when I do what?”

“Stare at me.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she parrots, nervousness creeping in. She swallows back a good third of the liquid in her glass, the soft burn of the whiskey warming her to her toes.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Why can’t I stare at you?”

“It’s…” 

She knows what it means, that she decided to come. And she should be so relaxed right now. His place smells like he does, that warm rosewood scent that’s so him. It’s comfortable, his apartment, the soft colors and cozy furniture. She’s drinking liquor too, the alcohol going down smooth and easy. But she’s having a hard time settling. Because she’s seeing him again and it’s like a dam has broken, her feelings tumbling out in an uncontrolled rush, pushing through barriers and trampling over hurdles like they could’ve gotten past her defenses all along, if only she had wanted to.

“It’s just, just _a lot_ ,” she says and she stands abruptly, stepping away from the sofa. The liquor sloshes in the glass, and she tips the rest of it back.

She moves back towards the windows, the lure of outside momentarily pulling at her. It’s all heightened, her senses—the feeling in her hands and his soft breathing and the taste of the whiskey still on her tongue. She hears him, moving behind her. She can tell when Barry stands, the rustle of the fabric of his tuxedo. The clink of the glass comes next, the tap of his shoes once they hit the hardwood. The air _shifts_ when he’s there, when the sound of his voice floats out to her.

“Iris don’t,” he says. “Don’t run. You’ve been running all week.”

“I’m not running. I’m just,” she pauses, waves her hand as she tries to gather her words. “I’m just trying to figure it out. These past weeks have been a whirlwind.”

“Those are all just excuses, Iris.” His voice isn’t as even as he probably hopes it is. It compels her to face him, to take note of the strain in his jaw, at the way his eyes almost seem like they’re flashing his moods, exasperated and heated, uncertainty there too.

“I’m not making excuses,” she defends herself, though she probably is and this is just what she means when she says that Barry makes her contrary.

He leans back. “Then tell me why you haven’t responded to a single one of my text messages.”

The last time they’d talked as friends, it’d been after a string of instant messages had been sent unanswered, the final nail in a casket of broken promises. She hadn’t done this for retribution, but a very small part of her feels like it’s what they needed to come back full circle, to fix this once and for all.

It’s what finally makes her ask, “Did you mean it? What you wrote?”, her eyes shuttered from the fear that this may have all been some complicated game of armour. She crosses her arms because all of sudden she feels cold, scared that she’ll just end up making a fool of herself all over again.

He laughs, but then she sees it’s not because he finds anything funny. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes one out to run a hand along his face. He sighs, the calm countenance he’s had this entire time twisting, his face pulled down in something that looks like annoyance. It puts her defenses higher up and she matches his demeanor.

“How haven’t you figured it out yet, Iris?”

She takes a step forward, arms dropping. “Figured out what, Barry? In between years of fighting and then years of nothing, what was I supposed to figure out?” She raises her voice. “Because you had sex with me I was supposed to just know?”

His eyes darken in anger. “Why do you keep saying it like that? Like sex was all it was?”

“Wasn’t it?” She tosses her head, hair whipping at her face.

“Oh, fuck you, Iris,” Barry scoffs. “You think I made up this elaborate ruse just so I could get you into bed?”

“I don’t fucking know, Barry! I,” she takes another step. She is close enough to him that she can see the dark ring around his irises, the blue in them graying until there looks like a storm brewing. “You tell me. You tell me what I’m supposed to know because I’m losing my fucking mind trying to figure out what your innuendos mean and your looks and your goddamn..."

“I fucking love you!” He doesn’t shout the interruption so much as his voice deepens in intonation, a rumbling sound she feels in her chest. “I’m in love with you, and I have been since I was six years old." He drops both of his hands, learning toward her. "I can barely remember a time I wasn’t in love with you.

The world stops.

It’s, it’s one thing to guess, to _hope._ It’s one thing to hear her friend explain it and it’s another to read words in a caption on a social media in a post. It’s something altogether different to hear him say it, to hear what she's been running from this whole time.

“Don’t say that, Barry.” She shakes her head and moves back, her feet taking her as far as she can get before her back is against the cream colored walls beside the window. She has to push. She has to _know_. “Don’t lie to me like that.”

“I’m not lying.” He starts toward her.

“Barry…” His name sounds like a plea, but she doesn’t know if she wants him to stay where he is or come closer.

“I mean every word, Iris,” he interjects.

Suddenly, the fight drains out of her, every angry, bitter thing she’s been harboring for so long just seeps out, loosening the tension in her shoulders and in her knees. It leaves her slack against the wall, and in its place is bone deep tiredness, and the heartbroken melancholy she’s been covering with rage this whole time. It comes out in words.

“Barry you left me.” She inhales, let’s it out slowly. “We were best friends. You were my _person_ , Barry, and you just stopped talking to me like I meant nothing to you.”

She blinks and the tears she’s never allowed herself to cry for him settles in the rims of her eyes. He must see the moisture gathering because he’s in front of her in a couple quick strides. He reaches for her, a hand at her waist, the other at her chin.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t think—” His rough tipped fingers are gentle on her skin, tipping up her chin until she’s looking at him. “I was scared. And I was young and I didn’t always understand what you meant to me.”

He trails his fingers up to her temple, tracing the curve of her cheek, wiping with his thumbs at the corner of her eyes. “I think I’ve always felt _more_ for you, though eight year old me didn’t understand what that meant. I just knew that I always wanted to be around you. You were the only one that could calm me down or make me laugh until my belly hurt. Then we grew up and it started to change.”

He drops the hand from her face but he keeps her confined, his body hovering over her until all she’s inhaling is the clean scent of him, his warm breath fanning over her face. She’s taking it all in, letting his words try to clear out the misgivings, letting his word try to mend what’s felt broken for so long.

“You were so beautiful and so smart and,” he shakes his head, rubs at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you would go for me like that. And I couldn’t figure out how to be normal around you, not when I couldn’t breathe when you were around or even when you weren’t. Not when I was having wet dreams about you. So I thought I’d give us some space, just until I could get my feelings under control. But then we became this, _this_ , and I didn't know how to fix it.”

She searches his face. She doesn’t know what she’s looking for, maybe some final signs that it’s really all been some wicked game.

What she finds is veracity. His eyes are clear, his gaze open. It’s _this_ she’s always been hoping to get from him, _this_ that could have saved them the despair, the anguish. 

“God, you’re such a fucking dummy,” she mumbles, after a moment, voice a bit angry because of what he'd decided to put her, them, through.

“It’s not the first time you’ve called me that.” He nods, eyes widening with hope. “It probably won’t be the last.”

She licks her lips slowly and holds on to his gaze. She reaches out to touch him too, what she’s been wanting to do since she saw him standing outside of his elevator. She clasps her hand at his neck, her thumb pressing lightly against his Adam's apple. Barry closes his eyes at the feel, swallowing in a quiet gulp. She fondles at his skin, at the fainter moles along his throat, so delicate that she’s missed most of them. He breathes in deep, and she finds herself matching his rhythm, deep breaths in, slow breaths out.

“I was starting to feel it too, Barry. I was having all these feelings for you too and you never even gave me a chance. You just...” she trails off, but it doesn’t matter because she thinks that maybe, for the first time since she was 12 years old. 

“Iris, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He dips his knees so that they’re eye to eye. “I never meant for it to end up the way it did.” He leans forward and pecks her lips, whispering between each kiss: “I’ll never do that again...I’ll never leave you...God, I love you.”

It’s at the last declaration that forces Iris to action. She curves her other hand behind his head and she kisses him, in earnest, mouth molding to his. It’s insane, how she’s missed kissing him. She had been spoiled, she thinks, in the weeks that she had been allowed to be wrapped up in him. She’d been able to indulge in him, in the sweet taste of his mouth, in the firm press of his body. She’d been able to have his snark and his grin, the love he hadn’t felt confident enough to express. And _fuck,_ did she miss it.

He holds her against the wall, mouth moving firmly but slowly, drinking in what he’s been missing too. She takes from him what she can: the slide of his tongue in her mouth, his hair clutched in her hand, his hips pushing into hers. He touches her wherever he can get his hands: the angle of her jaw, just above her clavicle. He squeezes at her waist and then rounds his way to the swell of her ass, grabbing a cheek in the big palm of his hand. He squeezes her there too, and it sends a shock through her so strong that her pussy clenches around nothing, already begging for his fingers and his tongue, longing for the swell of his dick pulsing against her walls.

He pulls back from her, touching his forehead to hers. “Come with me,” he whispers, and he leads her to his bedroom.

As Barry lays her on the bed, Iris knows that there is something different about this time. Before, it’d been the alcohol-fueled effects of lust, the angry fire of passion, that had colored their joining. She’d been wrapped up in her head—and sure, wrapped up in him too—but it’d felt like she was on borrowed time, taking only enough that the memories would stay her, not enough to prove that he, that _they’d_ meant more.

It’s there now, the feeling that maybe this is for real. She thinks her heart wants to burst clear out of her chest, but as she falls into his pillow soft mattress, she finds that maybe it’s just beating for him—stretching, straining, _searching_ for him. Trying to connect to him.

If one were to ask her, what sex with him is like this night, she might say transcendent. She might say it’s the one event she’s been waiting an entire lifetime for.

He wastes no time, doesn’t idle too long. He’s missed her, she can tell, and he hastens to be inside of her. But he doesn’t rush, doesn’t move too quickly past the parts that get her ready for him. Instead he’s thorough, sure, strumming her exactly where he knows she needs him. He peels her clothes off of her, sliding her dress up her hips, fingers tipping up her smooth thighs. He draws against her like he always does, writing sonnets into her skin, so light they’re barely there, so solid she feels them down in her soul.

“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he tells her. “Dreaming about you.”

Her dress, he tosses over the side of his huge platform bed, her panties and bra to follow. She doesn't even know when her shoes were taken off. He leans over her and takes a nipple into his mouth, tonguing at the hardened pebble, a hand spreading her thighs as he goes to fit himself between them. Then he moves to her other nipple, licking around her areola, tasting at her skin, before nipping at her.

“I thought I had missed my chance,” he continues, the rough rumble of his voice almost as lewd as she must look, naked and panting. “I thought I’d never get to taste you again.”

She moans aloud, hips undulating, bare sex brushing against the fabric of his pants. It’s delicious, the friction, and Iris does it again, thrusting her hips to meet him where he’s hard and waiting.

“Just a minute, baby,” he promises, and then he’s sliding down her body, his tongue leading the way until his head is bracketed by her legs. He opens her up, with his fingers first, spreading her lips for his gaze. Or for his tongue, because he licks into her, just like that, all the way up her slit.

“ _Barry,”_ she cries, throwing her head back into the pillows, fingers closing into fists.

“I heard you moaning in my sleep,” he tells her, voice vibrating against her sex, and Iris flushes, her body growing warmer, wetter under him. He kisses at her lips, a full on tongue kiss that bucks her hips. Barry presses the flat of his hand on her pelvis to hold her down. “You were moaning and you were writhing, just like this.”

She does, moan and writhe. He alternates between dancing his tongue inside of her and sucking on her lips, the obscene sound of him smacking on her adding to her arousal, her pussy flooding. She grabs on to the top of his head, fingers gripping the silky strands of his hair, and she does her best to fuck his face. She rocks her hips against his mouth, her clit brushing his nose every time she does. Her back arches off the bed, her knees spread wide, and every part of her feels loose and coiled, lax and tense. She feels _unhinged,_ like she can’t think in anything than stuttered moans and broken sentences, “ _Bear, fuck, you are, oohhh myyy goddd.”_

“No, it’s just me, baby,” he mumbles, the words muffled. The arrogance, the sound of him, the feel of him… it’s what makes her come, hard, her screams open and honest, her body jerking until she lies still. He doesn't let her come out of this feeling. He comes back up to her, shucking his tuxedo jacket, and kisses her. She revels in the taste of herself, and she gives it only a minute, before she's fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

They make quick work of getting Barry naked. His shirt comes off, and she trails her nails down the front of him, pleased to watch his belly clench and unclench. His shoes are kicked off, and his pants folow in the direction of his shirt, and she looks down to see him, thick and swollen, the head faintly darker than the rest, glistening with pre-cum. Her thighs are spread open; the cool air is hitting on her wet breasts and her wet thighs. She's primed for him, her entire body taut, and when he settles between her legs, his sex nudging at her entrance, she finally feels like she wants to float.

The press of Barry inside her grounds her.

She stretches to hold him. He keeps one hand wrapped around her thigh, gripping her tight, and he cups her face. The size of his hand curves his thumb around her throat, and he presses lightly, the slight ache causing her to flutter. He grinds down into her, pusher a little deeper, and Iris's eyes flutter closed.

"No," Barry whispers. "Open them, baby." She does, her lids heavy. "Don't hide from me. Not even here."

She reaches up to touch him, gripping at his shoulders. He bends down, pressing her thigh so that her leg is higher on his back, and Barry bottoms out, her breath catching in her throat.

"Shit," she exhales, lips parting. With the weight of him on her, she can wrap her arms around his neck, bring him down until she catch his lips, bruising a kiss into his mouth as she digs her nails into his skin.

This is their rhythm. They are slow, his hips grinding down in wide, open circles. They are deep, Barry pulling out a bit so that he can push back into her pelvis, sinking her thighs a little more each time, pressing her womb a little deeper this time.

They are here, together. Barry hasn't looked away from her face, hasn't stopped scanning the curve of her lips. He holds her eyes, his hand at her throat keeping her still. And none of that means she forgets what he's doing to the rest of her. She can feel him pulsing, the silken feel of him throbbing against her. He's taking her as she rocks back to his rhythm, keeping her against the mattress so every time she thrusts up, tiny sparks run through her. She squeezes her pussy around him, to make him feel as unbalanced as she does, and she only knows it works when he stutters his rhythm.

It's them, like that, until Barry starts talking again. " _Fuck, I love how wet you get_ ," he says against her mouth. She inhales those words, and " _shit, yes, squeeze me like that_ ," too, spoken like a mere caress against her lips. He whispers filthy words like that, and then some lovely ones too, " _I love you, you're beautiful, stay with me_ ," mixed in with them.

The dichotomy is her undoing. She closes her eyes again, _finally,_ and she lets the feel of him fucking her take over. She rocks and he pushes, he pushes and she rocks, and when he finds the spot that drops her head back, he keeps grinding against her there. She clutches on to him tighter, pulling him until her breasts are pressed against his chest and his lips are at her throat. He licks a stripe up her skin, biting down on her neck. And then Iris falls apart beneath him.

The feel of him following her over is a fucking religious experience. Her pussy clenches around him at the same time that he pulses thickly against her. She thinks that maybe she can feel every single ridge of his dick, and her knees lock around him, trying to keep him trapped in her heat.

She probably passes out again, because she blinks and then he's sliding out of her. She licks her lips at the sound of their mixed cum as he pulls out, and Barry lets out an embarrassed chuckle. She can do very little moving, so she just watches as he pads naked into a room she presumes is the bathroom, and comes back out with a wet towel. He cleans them both, and Iris finds herself drifting off, before she even feels him lift her to put her under the covers. The last thing she hears, after he curves her into his chest, is the whisper of "I love you," against her temple.

************

The following morning, she wakes early, the sun only a faint glow through his wide open windows. She takes a moment to look around his room, noting what she had been too busy to the day before. This is where it seems the square footage is, the space huge. She wonders if he painted the walls charcoal gray himself, if he chose the cream and gold lamps that sit on either side of his bed. His cherry wood platform bed sits atop a rug that matches the design of his lamps and two large paintings find homes above his headboard, black and white paintings framed in gold, some hints of burgundy in the paintings too. There’s a pair of comfortable looking chairs in the corner next to the windows, and built-in bookshelves on the other side of the room, these with various knickknacks instead of books.

She likes the look of his room, the masculine mixed with the softness that she thinks describes Barry. It’s so perfectly decorated; she’s sure he didn’t do it all alone, but she can tell it’s his home. There are things that scream Barry: old awards on the bookshelves and a fancy looking microscope; a rubik's cube sits there too, along with bronze solar system model. She sees pictures of his parents, ones with Cisco and Caitlin, one with Joe too. She even spots one of the two of them from childhood, Barry in glasses and crooked teeth, Iris’s smile close-mouthed, her hair wild and curly from playing in the heat.

It reminds her that this is Bartholomew Henry Allen. He’s just as he’s always been—kind and nerdy; a son, a friend, obsessed with the world around him. Last night reminded her that he’s someone else too: surer of himself, assertive, _loving._ She hates that she’d had to watch his transformation from afar. She’s glad she gets to keep watching it now.

She looks at him; he's sound asleep on his stomach, the sheet covering his hips, his face hidden in the pillows. She leans over and presses a kiss to his shoulder. He doesn’t even shift. With a nod, she slides out of bed.

It takes her only moments to find her clothes and put them on, clutching her shoes in her hand so she doesn’t disturb him. She eases out of his room, closing the door softly behind her. When she finds her purse, she pulls out a notepad and a pen, and scribbles down a note for Barry. She puts it down next to the glasses they’d drunk from last night, to be sure that he sees it. Then, with one last glance, she slips quietly out of his apartment.

_Barry,_

_I’m not running. Or hiding. I promise. There are just some more conversations I need to have, some more things I need to put to rest. Next Saturday, meet me outside of the Filmore for the awards gala. I’ll be the one in your colors._

_I love you._

_Iris._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh. This took so long and I feel not 100% about. But I don't want to keep sitting on it, so here we are. Tell me what you think!
> 
> We're almost to the end of this ride and it's such a joy. Hopefully I'll be back soon.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Elle.


	11. XI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris has a lot of much needed conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I give you over 13,000 words, will you forgive me for makng you wait over a month?  
> (Also, hopefully, I got all the typos. If not, I'll read it again tomorrow and fix them.)

XI.

 _And I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart); No, I don't wanna fall in love (this world is only gonna break your heart)_ _With you_

The morning after her night with Barry finds Iris at _The_ _Citizen’s_ office sometimes after 10.

When she leaves Barry’s house, it’s with the awareness that she’s already late and she’s got fewer minutes than she wants to in order to get dressed and down to her office. She hops in an Uber that must have been hanging around for how quickly it comes because she slips into the back only moments after she calls for it.

The city is ripe with morning activity. On Saturdays, Central City really comes alive. The farmer’s market sets up on Main St., several blocks of organic foods and goods from people in the city and the surrounding counties. Because of that, the uber driver has to adjust her route and it takes them longer than the roughly 7 minutes it should. Iris watches as they travel through the streets. Her surroundings take up a bit of her attention. She sees the tall white-tent covered booths taking up space on either side of the wide streets, a large flux of people already moving between them. She sees couples, one dragging the other one, half-asleep and probably cranky, through the throngs of people. A few kids are there with their parents or adult people, reaching out to touch the goods before snatching their hands back, more likely after being reprimanded. The thought makes her smile a little, especially at vague memories of her and Barry, young and precocious, running through this same area years and years ago. 

The farmer’s market wasn’t nearly as huge as it is now; back then, it was just a few small time farmers selling their produce, and a couple stay at home moms selling their handmade jewelry. Now, though, it grows bigger every year. There are long lines of fruits and vegetables in brilliant greens and reds and oranges; on the other side are booths advertising t-shirts and jewelry and knickknacks. Iris makes a mental note to go out there in the next couple weekends to write up a story on what’s new at the market.

What part of her mind that isn’t occupied by the crowd of people she sees is taken up by Barry Allen, her...friend? Lover? Man she’s in love with? She’s unsure of what to call him. She’s just as unsure of what last night meant. It would be ridiculous of her to still consider them just friends. Last night’s confessions so obviously pushed them past any line she had been trying to keep them in front of, that Iris might feel a little whiplashed for how fast it’s all happening. A month ago, she’d been happily going through life without much care besides her site. Men had taken a backburner to late nights and more important news stories, but Iris hadn’t at all felt like she was missing out. She was, afterall, doing exactly the thing she’d always wanted.

Barry coming back into her life more fully is something she would never have anticipated. Their taunts had been limited to seeing one another when she’d go down to the station to ask more about cases; and even then, she’d tried to work more with Cisco, or even the woman Caitlin, if she knew that Barry would be around. Because she’d be reminded, every time she saw him, of what he’d once meant to her, of what her body did in his presence. This entire thing might have seemed like a deviation from Iris’s, usually, carefully planned out deeds, but, like everyone else has apparently always known, Barry and Iris have always been _Barry and Iris_ , and there has never really ever been any planning of that.

She should have been aware of the fact that it wasn’t all pretend. Wait? Was any of it pretend? Barry has always seemed to live outside of Iris’s sphere of character judgment, always keeping her on her toes. The entire vacation, and before, Iris had only figured that he was after sex, after the only thing that seemd to ease even a little bit of the tension between them. Love had never overtly factored in. 

It’s why she knows that they have more to say to each other, or that she _—_ at the very least _—_ has more to say to him, some more digging to figure out why he let them go on for so long like this, if it was his feelings that had pulled them apart. She wants to talk to him about why she didn’t talk to him either 

(and this, this is not so easy, not until she’s spoken to those who’ve helped stifle, whose on actions have guarded her in way she’s really only recognizing)

because Iris knows that she wants more of him. Last night told her that. She wants to give him more of her, wants to take the years they’ve been apart and lay them out like pages in a magazine until Barry’s read every single line of her.

And Iris wants to know more about who Barry is too. She’s spent so much of the time thinking about who he _was_ , that she’s had very little time to take into account who he is now. She knows what she’s read about: his work with the high school robotics team on top of his duties as a CSI; his family’s philanthropy and their fundraisers. She knows what she’s learned through stalking his social media accounts: his ridiculous outings with Cisco; his affinity for posting random science facts. These things show her that, fundamentally, Barry is still who he’s always been. Which makes sense, because people don’t really change that much. Even after they’d fallen out, he’d still been pretty kind to everyone else but her. 

But she finds that she wants to dig deeper into him. She wants to know what really makes him tick. So much of him is arousing: his haughty confidence, his slick tongue, the way he looks at her like she’s the only thing he’s ever dreamed of; but he’s such a calming presence too: his fingertips at her waist a balm for her nerves, his laugh helping to assuage her of doubts.. Still, she wants to truly figure out what makes him the one she’s never been able to get away from. And the only way she can get to that, she thinks, is to stay away from him, to keep him at a distance where he cannot touch her and scramble her brain, where he can’t kiss her and lower every single defense. She needs some time to make sure they’re right, to make sure _she’s_ right. And then they can really try this.

  
  


When she walks into the _Citizen_ , all of her employees are there. Allegra is sitting on top of her desk, her long hair falling in front of her face as she types intently on her laptop. Kamilla is at her desk too, face scrunched up as she looks at her computer screen in concentration. Linda is typing on her phone, sitting in her desk chair, her feet propped up on her desk, her legs crossed at the ankles. It looks like a regular day for the workers at the Citizen but there are two things wrong with this picture: on Saturdays, she lets them all work from home. Articles happen in between errands, and photo appointments are less likely to be missed if they’re scheduled when others aren’t working. The second is that, instead of the _CCPN’s_ web page up on one of their two projectors, it is Linda’s IG page, pulled up to the picture of Barry and Iris he’d posted the night before. Blown up, the picture looks even more enchanting, their grins larger than life.

Iris bites at her lip, scanning the picture again for longer than is probably necessary, before she steps fully into the office and slams the door closed behind her. All three of her friends jump in surprise, apparently having not heard her coming into the office. She moves into the room, her sneakers quiet on the floor, and she eyes all three of them before she stops to place her bag on the large table in the center of the room. Their default facial expressions are there: Allegra slightly apathetic, Kamilla a bit like she’s nervous, Linda forever mischievous. Iris shakes her head, braids swinging against her back.

“I would ask you why you’re all here,” she says, and then points her gaze to the photo. “But I can figure it out.”

“We just wanted to congratulate you,” Linda says, dropping her feet to the floor.

“Congratulate me?”

Her friend nods. “Yeah. For finally pulling your head out of your ass.”

Allegra snorts.

Kamilla shakes her head, dark hair falling against her shoulders. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

“Right,” Iris mumbles because the look on Linda’s face says otherwise. Iris rolls her eyes, and then points to the screen. “Are y’all congratulating me because of this picture?”

Allegra nods. “I think you and the CSI nerd are pretty cute.” She tilts her head. “And something tells me this isn’t just pretend.”

Iris had wanted smart, intuitive people on her payroll. Apparently, they are that. 

Kamilla gives her a sheepish sort of grin. “Cisco told me that Barry’s been trying to figure out how to get you to talk to him all week.”

She sighs. “Of course he did.”

“And when you didn’t respond to any of my texts last night,” Linda interjects, “I figured this picture had finally done it.”

“So are we right?” Allegra wants to know.

“Were you and Barry consummating your relationship?” Linda asks instead. “Is that why you weren’t answering my calls?”

“I thought consummation only happens after marriage,” Kamilla says.

“They’ve never had sex before last night?” Allegra looks up at Iris and frowns, as if that’s something she really can’t believe.

“But does the trip sex count if they weren’t actually together?” That’s Linda, who’s now looking at Allegra for an answer.

“Sex is sex,” Kamilla says.

Allegra shrugs. “Do you think he’s just as nerdy in bed?”

“I’ve seen Barry talking to women at bars,” Kamilla adds. “I’m almost certain he’s not as nerdy as we think.”

All three of them turn to Iris for confirmation. Not for the first time in her life, she’s glad people can’t see her face flush in embarrassment.

“Can we not talk about my sex life, please?” She moves her hands to the pockets of the navy blue jumpsuit she’s wearing, if only to do something besides stand there.

“So you admit it,” Linda says. “You and Barry had sex last night?”

For some reason, that cracks the other two up, and they all laugh, full and open belly laughs that have Iris reluctantly smiling alongside them.

Linda finally gives Iris her full attention. She stands, the flirty, floral sundress she’s wearing flouncing at her knees, and she closes the distance between them. She puts her hand on Iris’s cheek, and looks at her keenly.

“You’re okay?” she asks, quietly. “I know we joke, but him putting up that picture had to have been a shock.”

Iris gazes up at the picture, at the joy that’s so obvious in the photo. It makes her heart do something strange, a flip flop in her chest that has her stifling the urge to press a hand there. Is she okay? Sure. She’s good actually, even with the voice in her head that’s telling her that she and Barry should take it slow, should take their time trying to figure them out. Even if other parts of her rebel at that, wondering what it’d be like to immerse herself in the enigma of Barry, to fall fast and wholeheartedly, dousing herself in him.

“It wasn’t the easiest part of my Friday night,” she says, instead of voicing this. “And I’m sure I have you to even thank for that picture.”

Linda’s brown eyes widen in faux innocence and Iris merely shakes her head at the other woman. Then, they turn a bit curious. 

“So were you and Allen consummating?”

“Linda!”

The other woman laughs and takes a step back. “I’m only asking if y’all are actually together now.”

Iris swipes a tongue across her bottom lip, and she _knows_ that there is nothing there but the lingering taste of coffee and the faint hint of her lipstick, but she swears she can still taste Barry on her mouth, the mint and whiskey that had been on him last night. The memory of his kiss, with her splayed out beneath him and his fingers gripping her throat, assaults her

(that, and the reality that she had never been touched that way before, and it hadn’t scared her, had only served to heighten every bit of pleasure he had given her, had only managed to make her wetter and more pliable for him)

and this time she does touch herself, reaching up to cover her neck with her own fingers.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Linda says, bringing Iris out of her revery, her grin a mix of lewdness and delight. “Go Barry Allen.”

It’s not exactly true, but Iris doesn’t want to hear more of Linda’s admonishments, so she nods. She’ll explain it later, after she and Barry have talked more, have lain all of their cards out of the table.

“Alright, are we doing this?” Allegra questions, her voice drifting over as she walks closer to them. Her laptop bag is hanging on her shoulder, pulling at the strap of the striped tank she’s wearing.

“Doing what?” Iris asks, noting that Kamilla is packing up too, placing her camera in a stylish leather camera bag in the same camel color as the strappy flats she’s wearing.

“We actually came to tell you that you wouldn’t be working today,” Linda tells her.

Iris frowns. “What? I’ve got a couple interviews today.”

“Rescheduled them,” Allegra says. “Check your email for confirmations and calendar changes.”

“And I didn’t have any shoots today,” Kamilla explains.

Iris glances around at the three of them. “So what are we doing?”

“Brunch!” Allegra says and it’s the most enthusiastic Iris has ever heard Allegra that she’s immediately down with the cause. They all traipse out of the office.

It’s been a while since Iris has had some real life girl talk. The four of them settle at a table on the upstairs patio of a restaurant called Bramble, popular for using only local ingredients and making really good Bloody Mary’s. It’s such a beautiful day and the patio is packed; the four seater tables are filled with families out with their young ones, hungover college students in need of a fix, groups of people hanging out with their friends, frosty glasses of breakfast appropriate alcoholic beverages littering the tables.

The one they’re seated at has a fantastic view of the city skyline, and the river can be seen far off into the distance. Today, the sky is such a soft shade of blue, practically cloudless, and Iris lets herself be alright with this sudden change in her plans. Because while Linda in particular, and the other two women in general, are the ones she would call on when she is in need, work and life and their own hang-ups have kept them from having these more casual get togethers, these fun for the sake of fun gatherings.

They each order a round of waters and “extra spicy” Bloody Mary’s to get them started, and it’s only after they’ve gotten their drinks and taken long, refreshing pulls, that Linda speaks up.

“I’ve called us all here, because we’re some bad ass women.”

“Here here,” Kamilla says.

Allegra turns and looks towards the city. That doesn’t deter Linda.

“We work hard, we kick ass, and we stick it to the man on a daily basis. I’m so proud to work in a place where women who look like us, Chinese and Korean and Black and Latina, can thrive and be supported without feeling like we’re giving something up.” She holds her glass up in the middle of the table. “To us.”

They all, with a smile on their faces, hold their glasses up to clink with theirs.

“To us.”

The four of them spend way too much time there. They don’t order until they’ve finished their first Bloody Mary, ordering another along with food, various omelets and breakfast potatoes, a plate of strawberry french toast for them to share. For a while, there’s nothing but the clink of forks against plates and pulls from paper straws, but Kamilla and Linda are the type of people who enjoy having conversations and they aren’t quiet for long.

Like whenever they are all together, there is no rhyme or reason to their conversations. Linda thinks it’s only fair that she also learns about what’s going on in Kamilla and Allegra’s love lives, and Iris wholeheartedly agrees. Kamilla and Cisco are good; he’ll be joining them this Friday for the awards ceremony. She tells them of a new side project he’s been working on, building some gadget for Ray Palmer, and they are all appropriately impressed by that. Allegra, apparently, has been going on dates left and right, with people she’s met online. That’s pulled from her very begrudgingly, but with Kamilla’s encouragement, they learn that she’s been meeting up with men or women nearly every other Friday, in an effort to “put herself out there.” There is one man, she tells them, that has caught her interest, but she won’t tell them much more than he’s tall, East Indian, and dresses like he’s on his way to court everyday. Linda thinks that she and Amanda are getting closer, and thinks that she might invite her to the next whole group hangout.

This leads them to a conversation about some of the upcoming events in Central City and, naturally, Iris pulls out her phone to jot down in the notes some ideas about where they might go and who might write up articles about new and exciting places in the city. That gets them giddy about the awards ceremony, where each of them and their plus ones will be waiting to see if they get recognized for their hard work. Iris questions if they’ve got their dresses and they all pull out their phones to show one another their gowns. When they see the one Iris has chosen, even Allegra agrees that “Head CSI is gonna swallow his tongue.”

Conversation continues to flow as do the Bloody Mary’s, though Iris has her hard stop at three, and she _—_ for a change _—_ revels in slight irresponsibility and camaraderie. It’s a day she hadn’t realized she needed until now, a day to let loose and laugh with women she loves and trusts. Her vacation had been too unduated with her unresolved feelings for Barry that she hadn’t felt very rested at the end of it. This does it for her, though. 

As she walks back home, probably far too tipsy for an early Saturday afternoon, she feels grateful for where she is in life. Drama with Barry aside, at 29, Iris feels like she’s gotten to a place where she’s content with the growth she’s made, content with where she sees herself going. She’s young, and there’s still more that she wants to learn and experience, but she’s got a good family, people who’ve only ever been supportive of her. She’s got her dream job working with dream women, and, when it’s all said and done, she might have her dream man too.

That is what makes her think of what’s been holding her back for so long. She pulls out her phone and sends Linda a message, satisfied that she’s starting to take the steps.

************

Iris is sitting at home, waiting for her pizza to be delivered, when her ringtone sounds. She’s already in her pajamas with her scarf tied around her braids, even though it’s only a little bit after 8 and the sun is still out. She is snuggled into the couch, wrapped up in her blanket, and she has to dig down into the side of the couch to grab her phone.

She only gives it a passing glance, too busy watching Guy Fieri taking a huge bite of a burger smothered in cheese, before she absently slides the button over to speak.

“Hello,” she answers distractedly.

“Hey.”

The sound of Barry’s voice on her phone startles her and she nearly drops it. Gripping the phone with her hand, she catches it at her jaw. She looks at the phone, sees Barry’s name in white letters, and her body floods with _feeling,_ deep and curling.

“Iris,” she hears through the speakers, and she rushes to bring the phone back to her ear before he hangs up. She doesn’t know why she feels so startled to be hearing from him, but she is. It could be that he hasn’t contacted her at all today and, for a while, she had wondered if he might be upset about her leaving the way she had. It hadn’t been something she’d planned. She only knows that when she’d woken up, she’d been a little bit enamored with him lying beside her. She’d felt her heart swell, almost literally growing in size, as he’d breathed in and out deeply, unbothered by her own churning thoughts.

Talking to Linda, and then talking to Barry, has opened up something in her. Somewhere, back in the corner of her mind (where she keeps memories of her mother and the pain of watching Barry drift further and further away from her), she’s always known that Barry had been _Barry_ for her, his name emphasized in meaning and connotation. In middle school and before, it had been easy to hide behind friendship, to tell herself that what she was feeling was some overblown expression of platonic love, exacerbated by the death of her mom and the pain her father hadn’t been so great at hiding. In high school and after, the hurt and anger had been as much as a crutch as the friendship before, her unresolved feelings for him hidden behind snarky comments and pointed jabs.

Since last night, even when it has been fuddled by girl talk and vodka and spicy tomato juice, her mind has been imprinted with the vision of Barry lying in the bed beside her, his long arms wrapped around her. It might have been the first time she’d felt safe around someone who wasn’t her father or Wally or Linda, more content than she has been around him since that time they’d gotten caught snuggled up watching a movie when she was 14. 

For Iris, the too quick range of emotions—from near hatred to near encompassing love _—_ has her head spinning. _That_ is why she had to leave, why she had to pull back for just a second, to examine what it means that Barry Allen really loves her too.

“Hi Barry,” she finally says into the phone. She leans over to pick up the remote from where it’s fallen onto the floor so that she can turn the volume on the TV down a bit. 

“You busy?” he asks.

“Uh, no. Just watching _Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives._ ”

His chuckle is clear over the line. “For someone that can’t cook, you sure do watch a lot of cooking shows.”

“How do you know I can’t cook?” she frowns. “I’ve gotten a lot better since high school!”

“That’s not what Wally has said.”

“Wally needs to stop talking to you,” she grumbles.

“You mad, baby?”

The easy way the word drips off his tongue causes a ripple of arousal to run through her. Her response to that is to grunt something incomprehensible and Barry’s laughter floats out to her again.

“What do you want, Allen?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. I missed you.”

She grips the phone tighter in her hand, and mumbles, “you saw me a few hours ago.” 

“Yes, but I didn’t get to wake up to you.” She can imagine him licking his lips before his voice drops an octave lower and he murmurs, “I had plans for you this morning.”

Iris makes a humming sound in the back of her throat, a completely involuntary move, but one that seems most appropriate in this moment. She already knows that plan, knows that he would have curled into her, arms draped over her waist, his long fingers separating her legs enough to reach down and play in her. She knows that he would have gripped her thigh and pulled it back over his own thigh, and then he would have slipped in, thick and hard. She clenches at the thought, her sex tightening around where she is suddenly wet and empty.

“Why’d you leave this morning?” Barry wonders, and his voice is a bit too deep for the innocence of the question. 

Maybe he’s thinking of that plan too.

“Did you get my note?”

“Hmmm mmm.” There’s a pause. “So you’re not running from this?”

“No, Barry, I…” She scratches at her knee. “I’m not running. I just think that we should…”

“Take it slow?” he asks, pulling the words from her mouth.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” There is amusement in his voice when he says, “Did you expect me to push back?”

She shifts on the couch to lie down on her right side, stretching her legs out and pressing the phone against the pillow so she doesn’t have to hold it. “Well, you are ridiculously contrary when it comes to me.”

“That’s definitely you.”

“Literally every time I say something, you have some dumb ass retort.”

“Like the one you just gave me.”

Iris huffs, stifling a laugh at the end of it. “See what I mean.”

Barry is quiet for a second, the air shifting when he comes back on the line. “You ever wonder why I argue with you all the time?”

The slight change in conversation makes Iris more alert. “Sure,” she says softly.

“It was the only way I could think to get you to talk to me, to even look at me for longer than a passing second. I know that I went about this _wrong._ And when we stopped talking, I found that the only way you’d speak to me was if you were yelling at me about something.”

“So you’d push my buttons on purpose?”

“At first, no. Because I think our jabs were a little more real. You were mad at me and I was confused, and it always came out in an argument.”

She nods, even though he can’t see her. She can’t deny that.

“And then we got older,” he continues, “and you got...sexier.”

“Sexier?” she repeats.

His laugh is a quiet rumble. “God, yes. You know you’ve always been the prettiest girl I knew, with those eyes and that mouth. But then it _changed_ , and you yelling at me did more than just make me mad. Then I did start pushing your buttons on purpose.”

As much as Iris is still amazed at the fact that she went through so many years not realizing Barry’s feelings for her, she can’t feign surprise at what he’s saying. She remembers the feelings of anger that’d permeated every single one of their interactions, but knows that there had also been a flush of something else hot and provocative that had swayed their time together. They hadn’t seen much of each other once he’d gone off to college. On occasion, though, when he’d come back to town, she’d see glimpses of him. There is only one real time that she remembers seeing him after, and she thinks it was this time that the fact that she was actually turned on by her fights with Barry was made real.

Even after he left, he had still been a friend to the science enthusiasts at Central City High. There had been one event that he’d come back for, Iris doesn’t even remember what it was now, but she remembers she had been there to write it up for the newspaper. Like so often, she thinks back to that day, when she’d been strapped with a notepad and her brother for reference. When Barry had walked in, the type of cool that only comes with having graduated before everyone around you, Iris had been way too alert, noting how handsome he’d seemed to her in a plain pair of well-fitting jeans and a white t-shirt. There is a lot she can stress about this day: the way that he’d seemed to hone in on her as soon as he’d walked into the room, how aware of him she’d felt when he’d sat next to Wally on the other side of her. Maybe it’s that, those conflicting emotions, that started it. At the time, _anything_ would cause an argument with them. And anything had that day. She’d written something down wrong, apparently, and Barry had noticed it as he’d read it over her shoulder. He’d commented, Iris had reacted, and Wally had pushed them into the hall so they could fight about it in peace.

They’d been yelling, surely way too loudly, and then it had _shifted,_ became tense in another way, especially as he’d moved closer to her and she’d moved further back, stopping when her back had hit the wall. She remembers the rise and fall of his chest, as noticeable as his broad shoulders in that shirt. Her own chest had been rising too, almost in concert with his, and she’d had to take long, deliberate breaths in order to appear calmer.

“I’m starting to think you _like_ fighting with me, West,” Barry had said to her, but his tongue had wrapped around the word as if he were dancing with it, and something a bit warmer than red-hot anger had slithered through her, her face flushing and her fingers tingling and her entire body vibrating with some unfulfilled need. 

“In your dreams, Allen,” she’d snarled back, the lack of a witty retort one she’ll now chalk up to hyperstimulation.

His response _—_ a shuttering of those eyes, and that goddamn smirk on his face as he muttered, “you have no idea, Iris,” _—_ had caused her to flee the event entirely, telling Wally to catch a ride back with Barry if he wanted to stay. That might have been their last interaction before she’d walked into his office years later.

“So that’s how you get off?” she wonders aloud, even if she thinks it that might be how she gets off too. “Is that why we had sex like that? After our argument in Savannah?”

“You should see you,” he answers, his words slow, deliberate, “when you’re calling me names. Your eyes flash and your skin gets, I don’t know, not red, obviously, but like, you get this sort of _flush,_ and by god, Iris, it just makes me want to bend you over a table to shut you up.”

“I…” She opens her mouth to say, well, anything, but she’s picturing it, her bent over a table, his fingers gripping lightly at her throat, and she can’t find any other words besides “come over and fuck me now.”

Those she doesn’t actually say.

“Was that only me?” he asks in response to her silence.

“I don’t know,” she says, when she can speak without stuttering, but then she decides, “no.” She licks at her lips, grabbing at the tie at the waistband of her shorts as she thinks. “In high school, I had so many feelings about you, the biggest of which was hurt. But I was angry at you too, so I let that one take me the furthest.

I’ve heard Linda and Wally say that many people thought that if we’d have just made out, maybe we wouldn’t be so mad at each other. And I was convinced that wasn’t true. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I yelled at you so much because I _did_ want to kiss you, to be with you. It _was_ that I was mad at you,” she adds. “I need you to know that, Barry. You _hurt_ me back then, way more than I thought was possible.”

“I am truly sorry, Iris. I don’t know how else to say that but to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

She licks her lips slowly, blinking at the way _the rest of my life_ fell so comfortably from his mouth. He’s hinted at forever, only in the look in his eyes when he’s staring at her, in the whispered words when he’s deep inside her. It’s never been something so blatant like this, and Iris puts that on the backburner, to pull out and dissect when she has more time to.

She further explains, “but I also wanted to see why Becky Cooper tried to get me in trouble because of you and what it meant that so many other girls would giggle when you walked by. I’d started to feel different around you, when you were still in middle school, getting that sort of fluffy feeling in my stomach when I thought about you. But you were Barry and I just thought this was what friendship was. And we grew up and _you_ changed. And we’d see each other and fight. And that fluffy feeling never really left, even with the film of red I’d see looking at you.Then, we’d get into some stupid argument, and I’d leave and have to make out with whoever I was dating in the car.”

“Were you thinking about me?” he wants to know, “when you were with other boys? Other men?”

“No,” she answers honestly. “Not actively. You were more peripheral, this man I couldn’t stand who’d caused all of this _ust._ And I’d push the thought of you aside in order to give them my attention.” She adjusts the phone. “In more recent years, it’s been boxing that’s gotten rid of the excess energy.”

“And now you’ve got me to do all that.”

Iris snorts. “Slow, Barry.”

“Believe me, Iris. I’ll go as fast or as slow as you want me to. As long as it gets me you in the end.”

“What are you wearing?”

Iris is lying in her bed now, her blinds open as she snuggles into her covers. Her phone is on speaker and lying on the pillow next to her, and a glance at the digital clock on her bedside table tells her that she’s been on the phone for nearly three hours now. The day’s descent into darkness proves it, the soft light that had been filtering into her living room now nothing but the faint moonlight she gets into her bedroom.

Her pizza had come a little after hour one, and she’d eaten it while on the phone with him, after he’d claimed that he hadn’t wanted to stop talking. It’s been literal years since Iris has spent any significant time on the phone talking to anyone she isn’t interviewing, and she absolutely feels like she’s in high school again, except Barry is still her best friend, but on his way to being her lover too, and it makes her ache for what could have been.

They’d talked about his day, one more harrowing than her own. He’d been called to the scene of two separate violent crimes, a stabbing and a shooting, and he’d spent much of his time comparing blood samples and looking for matches in footprints. She tells him about brunch with the girls, morning drinking she doesn’t make a habit of but seemed to fit into the conversation they’d been having. He presses her for details, but explaining that they’d spent much of the time trying to figure out if he was good in bed doesn’t seem like something she should tell him, so she doesn’t say a word.

That takes them down another road of secret keeping, Barry explaining to her that he’s got a surprise for her after the awards ceremony, and for her to pack an overnight bag to leave in his car. She spends a solid 15 minutes trying to get him to tell her what he’s got planned, even offering to send a picture of her naked breasts if he would give her a hint. He did contemplate that for a while, but held off in the end. Iris pouted about that for several long beats. In fact, she still very much wants to know what that’s all about.

Now, she’s in the shorts and t-shirt she usually sleeps in, and she feels sleepy and peaceful...well, she had until he’d asked the question.

“Say what now?”

“What do you have on?” he repeats, and even though she can hear some of the amusement in his voice, there is blatant curiosity there, and some heat twisted in too.

“Why do you want to know that?”

“So I can know what I’m telling you to take off.”

“Wait. You want to have phone sex?”

“I’ve been sitting here talking to you all night,” he says. “And I miss you in my bed. This is slow, right?” 

“Probably not,” she responds, but she’s not opposed to it, especially knowing what Barry Allen sounds like in the throes of passion. “So we’re really doing this?” 

“Take off your clothes, Iris,” Barry says into the phone, and as far as answers go, that one seems pretty straight forward.

She puts her phone down on the pillow beside her, and throws her comforter off. She makes quick work of her tank top, and then she eases out of her sleep shorts. She isn’t wearing a bra or panties so she’s bare, her skin prickling in the coolness of the air conditioning. 

“Okay,” she says, and she drops her hands beside her. Unsure of what she should do.

“You’re naked?” he wonders.

“Hmm mmm.”

“Did you have on shorts, like those you wore in Savannah?”

She glances over at her phone. “Yeah.”

Barry mumbles something she can’t understand. When he’s back on the line, the throaty sound of his voice is back, the one that hints at a tightening in his own belly, a flush to his cheeks.

“I’ve been thinking about you in those shorts,” he tells her. “Every single night since that trip, I’ve pictured you lying down on the bed in front of me, sometimes on your back, sometimes on your stomach, and I’d picture myself sliding them down those pretty thighs of yours.”

“Oh?” she says, a voice lower in the dark. “And would I be wearing anything else.”

“No,” he says, and for a moment, he lets the word sit, lets it linger in the implication. “Do you want to know what I do to you in my dream, Iris?”

“Hmm,” she hums in agreement.

“I need your words, baby.”

Iris swallows. “Yes.”

“And you’ll touch yourself?” he adds. “While I tell you?”

“I…”

“Say yes, Iris. I need to know you’re doing it, while I talk to you. I need to hear how it’s making you feel, okay?”

“Yes,” she says again, and already she’s primed,ready from the cool air in the room and the deep sound of his voice, ghosting over her nipples, across her stomach, down between her bare thighs.

“Good girl.”

Iris is sure she whimpers.

“Touch your breasts,” Barry says. She does, reaching up and curving her fingers over them. Her hands feel different all of a sudden, too soft and too small. But when Barry comes back over the line, it doesn’t so much matter in the moment.

“That’s where I always start. In my dreams. You’re already laid out naked for me, thighs spread so I can settle between them, and I give you breasts attention first. I start out with your right one, with my tongue, licking around the areola.”’

She follows his direction, though she works at both of hers. She only gets a small tingle at the sensation, and she settles back onto the bed, needing more.

“It’s only when you’re begging for it that I pull your nipples in my mouth. I love how sensitive they are, how just running over them with my tongue, one and then the other in quick succession, can have you gripping around me.”

Iris lets out a soft moan as she does, trails the tips of her fingers over her nipples, pinching at them.

“That’s it baby,” Barry says on the other line. Her eyes flutter closed at the sound.

“Tell me where you’re touching yourself?”

She swallows. “My breasts.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, but it sounds closer to a groan. “Are you rubbing them between your fingertips? Pinching them?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“God, I can picture you like that. So pretty.”

Iris’s hips buck, a move that’s unprompted, but one that tells her what she’s aiming for.

“What else would you do to me?” Iris wants—needs—to know. She licks her lips in anticipation.

“It depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re wet right now.”

Iris’s hips buck again.

“I’d glide down your soft stomach, feel it tighten as I kept going, down to where you need me.” He pauses for a second, and Iris thinks that she can hear the rustle of clothes through the quiet on the line. The thought that Barry is getting naked too, that he’s taking his long sex and rubbing himself to hardness, makes her core tighten.

“Can you touch yourself for me?” Barry grabs her attention again. “Can you spread those pretty pussy lips and tell me how ready you are for me?”

Iris bites at her lip, but the moan still escapes, soft, until she does slide one of her hands down over her belly and opens herself with her index and ring fingers. She’s hot to her own touch, and when she dips her middle finger inside, just to check, she is wet, the moisture coating her slim digit. This time, her moan is louder, the sound coming from the back of her throat, and Iris snakes her body, needing so much more than this is giving her.

“What else would you do Barry?”

“Anything that would get you to moan like that again.”

She chuckles, but it’s a sort of maniacal sound. “My hands aren’t as big as yours,” she complains. “Your hands would get me to moan like this again.” She slips another finger in, her body clenching at the feel. “ _Ooooh._ ”

“Imagine it’s me,” Barry says, but there is a strain in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Imagine it’s me, my fingers inside of you. Give yourself two, three fingers if you need to.”

She does. “Fuck.”

“Yes, baby. I love when you swear like that.” He lets out a harsh breath. “Fuck yourself on your hand for me. And then take all that sweet wetness and rub it over your clit.”

Iris does just that. She pumps into her own body, rocking her hips against her hand, her body growing even wetter as he keeps whispering into her ear. He sounds like he’s there with her, the words floating over her as if they can touch her too— _that’s it, iris, moan for me baby; i bet you’re so wet you can hear it, how gushy do you sound; i’m gonna come too baby, just the way you sound gets me off._

It’s that last one—that and her wet fingers rubbing hard at her clit, that and her hips rocking against the bed, her head thrown back—that makes her come. She squeezes her thighs around her wrist, keeping her hand in place, and she moans of “Fuuuuck, Barryyyy,” at the same time that she hears Barry’s own grunts over the line. She imagines him coming, thick ropes of cum squirting onto his hard stomach, and she thinks that she might have another mini orgasm at the thought of it.

The aftermath isn’t as awkward as it could be. She gets up to clean up, and the water rushing on the other end tells her he’s doing the same. She straightens her scarf from where it had half fallen off.

“I’m sleepy now,” she tells him, once she’s back in her bed and wrapped up in the covers again.

“I’ll stay on the phone until you fall asleep.”

“You wanna listen to me sleep?” She’s already sinking into it, but she manages to giggle at him. “Pervert.” 

“Only for you.”

She shakes her head, even as her eyes flutter closed. The last thing she hears before she’s gone is his voice in her head. “Good night, baby.”

************

The following morning, the warm, satisfied feeling she’d gone to bed with dissipates. The day dawns hot and sunny like it’s been for the past week now, and she’s unreasonably grumpy that it’s not raining, if only to match her mood. After walking home from brunch the day before, full and sated and thoughtful in the way that she gets when she’s drunk, she’d texted Linda about driving out to see her mother. It’s been a while since she’s been. They all usually go at least once a year, on Mother’s Day or her birthday, but the past couple years they haven’t made it out, and the guilt adds to her own somberness.

She makes coffee at home because Linda will be here soon, so she gets it percolating while she showers. By the time she’d dressed in a simple t-shirt dress and the sneakers she had on the day before, Linda is already outside. She quickly pours coffee into two to-go mugs, taking a quick sip of her own. It definitely isn’t Jitters but in the moment, beggars can’t be choosers. Throwing her phone into her bag, she rushes out of the door.

Iris is the only one of her friends or family that doesn’t have a car. Living so centrally located, she’s never felt the need to. In high school, she’d used her mom’s old car to get around and then it had passed down to Wally, who eventually upgraded. Still, she’s glad that they do so in moments like this, she doesn’t have to travel the many miles out on the bus. 

Linda’s waiting in her Toyota at the curb for her, and she slides into the nice four-door sedan, closing the door and handing over the other container of coffee. 

“Hey gorgeous,” Linda mumbles, taking the coffee with a grateful smile, before leaning over to press a kiss to Iris’s cheek.

“Morning.” Iris takes a sip of coffee from her own mug.

“We ready to do this?” she wonders. Iris just nods.

The ride to the cemetery where Iris’s mother is buried is about a half hour drive outside of the city. Linda hits the highway before she turns on some Erykah Badu, music she knows always soothes Iris, and they ride is relative silence. 

She’s been thinking, for a while now, how watching her parents’ relationship might have had an impact on how she’s viewed her relationship with Barry. It was always easier to fight than to face the reality that their fighting meant the true resolution of their relationship. She’d seen how absolutely in love her parents had seemed to be, and then viewed it as it all went to shit, and at the end of the day, she and Barry seem so much like them that it’s _scary._ How can it be fair, to love someone so much, to _crave_ someone so much, and then have to live with the truth it might not (that it probably won’t) work? To have kids who see the animosity, who feel the pain every time they walk into their own home?

When she’d dated Eddie, she’d held on so tight because they had never fought. She’d loved him, in her way. He had been kind and compassionate, always understanding of her work and never pressuring her for more than she had been willing to give him. They’d spent much of their time watching television shows when they had time, watching movies in the park or going to baseball games. Sex with him had been perfectly satisfactory, just like in every other part of their relationship: kind and compassionate. There had never been any of that, that _spark_ she feels for Barry, none of that overpowering need. Eddie had never made her as mad as Barry has; but he’s never made her feel as loved either.

So she figures, who might be better to talk to about it than her mother?

  
  


“Hi mom.” 

The cemetery she’s in is fairly small, more individual plots than groups of families. It is a lovely place, neatly manicured with silver vases sitting next to each headstone, waiting for flowers. The path to her mother’s grave is a short one. While she eases her way down the cleared dirt path that leads there, Linda stays in the car, a laptop open in her lap.

It’s quiet here. There’s no one out as far as she can tell, and it feels so preternaturally still, as if she’s sitting inside a rather sad painting. Trees loom tall over her, the vibrant green leaves adding a shade that she needs in the overbearing June heat. Wally or her dad or her grandparents must have been by recently because a lovely bouquet of white roses sit in her vase.

Iris places the blanket down on the grace directly in front of the headstone that reads:

_Francine Iris West_

_January 22, 1966-August 23, 1995_

_Mother, Wife, Daughter, Friend_

It still makes her a bit emotional each time she reads it, and she says with a sad smile, as she sits down cross-legged on the blanket, “I’m sorry it’s been a while. I’m still hoping you’re looking out for me, though.”

Iris has no actual thoughts on heaven and hell, has no real opinions on where people go when they die. As a child, she’d always thought that her mother was somewhere still watching her, still making sure that she was alright. In high school, she’d held on to that a little more loosely. While Linda’s foster mother is a dear woman, she isn’t Linda’s mom and the fact that they’d both lost mothers relatively young had only pushed them closer together. All of those things she imagined she would do with her mom, learning about makeup and how to dress for herself, figuring out what to do about fake friends and boy crushes, she had done with Linda. Linda would always say, “maybe our moms have found each other too; maybe they’re together making sure we’re okay.” The thought has kept them going, she thinks, has kept the pain of growing up without that needed womanly guidance a little bit at bay.

“I’m doing well,” she starts, straightening the skirt of her dress so that it covers her knees. “ _The Citizen_ is doing really great. I’ve got a team now. Of course Linda’s right there with me, but I’ve got two others, Kamilla and Allegra, who work alongside me. They’re brilliant, and I really think they’re going to help me take the site to the next level. I’m excited about the work we’re doing together.

I really came to talk to you about Barry. We’ve been hanging out again and I’m a little nervous about it. No, nervous isn’t the right word. I’m terrified. I explained it all to you when we broke up as kids. Losing him, only years after losing you, was hard. I think it’s why I sort of dated so much in high school, ya know. They obviously weren’t going to stay. It was high school. And then college came and of course they were focused more on how many girls they could get. But, I think I went the opposite way in college. There was no point in dating, really. I tried with Eddie, but it…”

Iris shakes her head. She’s rambling, which happens when she’s nervous and confused and, essentially, talking to herself. She’s not even sure why she felt the need to come. Her mother can’t answer and she doesn’t know what she would want her to answer, even if she could. Maybe it’s just this need she has, to get it off of her chest. To say out loud how it’s influenced this whole thing with Barry. So, she just says it.

“I know that you and dad, towards the end, were really not friendly. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. How I remember you guys being so madly in love, and then I remember seeing it change so abruptly, like a switch had been flipped. I watched you and dad _hate_ each other, and it’s the reason that I’ve been so slow to realize that Barry and I could be something good. For so long, I thought that all of that passion was a bad thing. I mean, you were my only model, other than Barry’s parents. And they never seemed to fight. So I thought that, once Barry and I started fighting, it just meant what I figured was true. But then Eddie, who I should have absolutely adored, didn’t make me _feel_ , not like Barry did, even at 6, and 12, and 18 years old. And if I’ve felt like this about someone for nearly my entire life...that can’t be wrong, right?

In the long run, though, I think it helped me too. Because while I now realize how all of those feelings don’t have to be a bad thing, I also know how I don’t want to be treated. How I never want to treat Barry again.”

It feels good to get out those thoughts that have been dancing around in her head for weeks, for years if she’s being honest. She feels a bit of it lift, the weight she’s been carrying, and she takes in deep breath before she lets it out slowly. Finished saying her peace, Iris stands, picking up the blanket and throws it over her forearms.

“I’ll make sure it’s not so long between visits,” she adds before she turns to walk away. “Miss you, mom.”

************

Iris and Linda stop for a milkshake before she drops her back at home, promising to see each other at work the next day. With the experience still fresh in her head, she sends her dad a text asking if they can meet later in the week for lunch. She imagines it’s time to tell him the truth too.

She spends the rest of Sunday getting done some of the things she should have done on Saturday. She doesn’t talk to Barry much, other than a few messages back and forth, and she’s torn between feeling relieved because she’s a bit too emotionally drained to talk to him, and actually wanting to hear his voice because she misses him.

On Monday, she’s insanely busy. Allegra has rescheduled her interviews throughout the day, in addition to a few other leads she needs to check out on another story, so she’s swamped. She also hears over the radio about a huge drug deal gone bad, one resulting in multiple deaths, so she sends Linda off on that one and recognizes that Barry is going to be swamped too, so she probably won’t be able to talk to him. She doesn’t.

(Although, some time late after midnight, when she’s turning over to get comfortable in bed, she sees her phone light up. In the hope that it’s Barry, she grabs at it, rubbing at her eyes as she blinks at the bright screen. She reads the message, in fact from Barry, and she goes to sleep with a slight smile on her face, Barry’s simple message, _I hope your day was better than mine. Missed you today. I love you, gorgeous,_ still on her mind.)

Tuesday is just as busy, and even more of a drag because she wakes up wishing Barry was in bed with her—or, more accurately, inside of her—and as she goes through her day, a touch emotional and a lot horny, she wonders at the wisdom of waiting until Saturday to actually see him again. 

Sometimes she really hates how her mind works.

She doesn’t stop thinking of him, though. When she’s awake and when she’s asleep, her mind constructs these images of him, of them, in various scenarios and they help to keep the sharp pang of loneliness away.

There’s the one of them at dinner, at a round table covered with a white table cloth. Red wine sits in expensive goblets on the table, tall candles glitter between them. She’s in red, because of course she is, and his tie matches her dress. But all Iris can really take note of is how his eyes shine in the low light of the restaurant and how his moles stand out against his skin; how his pink lips keep curving over his white teeth, his grin so open and honest, spelling out his love for her.

There’s the one of her spread out on her couch, her skirt bunched up around her waist, lace panties dangling from one of her ankles. Barry is between her thighs, his belt digging into her skin because he hasn’t bothered to do much more than unbuckle his pants enough to pull himself out and slide deep into her. This is the one she lingers on, the one that finds her far too distracted at work and too warm at night, her fingers sliding into her shorts, into her, with this vision in her head and the memory of him whispering filth in her ear.

In yet another, she is in a house she doesn’t recognize, in a big armchair so comfortable she’s sinking into it. It’s her, but different, laugh lines hinting at age in the same way that Barry’s glasses and neat beard do. On the floor in front of them are two children, different only in that one of them is a girl with a head full of thick brown curls and the other is a boy who’s own brown hair is straighter, a ruffled mess like his father’s so often is. But they’re both the exact same shade of sandy brown and their eyes are dark like Iris’s but there is a liberal sprinkle of freckles across their cheeks. She gets a flood of emotion so strong from this one that she feels it all the way to the tips of her fingers.

The images come, so often she’s a bit annoyed that she’s thinking about him so much. (And wondering if he’s thinking about her too.) It’s so much that when she sees him again, as she’s standing just inside her dad’s office on Thursday afternoon, she almost wonders if she’s conjured him up.

She’s scrolling through her emails, so she doesn’t know what makes her look up. She knows it’s ridiculous, but it seems almost as if she’s attuned to him, how the hairs on her arms prickle and her heart dips low in her belly all of a sudden, her fingers tightening around the phone in her hand.

He doesn’t seem to have that same reaction, because when she finally finds him, after casting her eyes around the huge open space of the bullpen, he’s talking to a lady detective. Her thick hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the grin on her dark face doesn’t much say “I have questions about the case,” despite the stack of manilla folders in her hand. She’s tall, lithe, and Iris finds herself frowning at the view, searching Barry’s face for any sign of interest. She can’t read anything in his eyes, can’t tell anything by the way he leans down to listen to her, his own hands holding on to a cup of coffee. His long fingers wrap almost lovingly around the mug, cradling it in his hands in the same way that he might cup the face of a lover.

She’s distracted by that thought of him—and then the rest of him: the olive chinos sculpted to those long legs, the navy polo shirt tucked neatly into the waist of his pants. He’s got his glasses on, and Iris didn’t think she realized until just this moment how much Barry’s nerd look does it for her. He’s missing the lab coat, which Iris honestly is glad for, because if he’d had that on, Iris is almost certain she would jump him.

As if she’d said that aloud, Barry’s head jerks up and he looks to one side of him, then the other, before gazing across the room over the head of the lady detective. When he catches her eyes, something a bit dirty passes through them, and he stands up straighter, the woman in front of him all but forgotten.

Iris watches as his gaze travels over her. She’d had a few interviews this morning, so she’s in a gray pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. A pair of red pumps complete her outfit, a thin strap around the ankle. She’d felt professional when she’d dressed this morning, wanting to make a good impression for a few of the people she’d only ever talked to via email. But she doesn’t feel very professional now, not with the way Barry’s eyes track first the red lipstick on her mouth and then the swell of her breasts. Not with the way he eyes the curve of her waist, the length of her legs in the shoes. It’s _the_ look, the one he’d always give her when she was in his presence. For so long before, she hadn’t known what it meant. She thinks she does now.

He doesn’t turn away from her, but she sees him shift slightly in order to say something to the woman. Then he’s walking towards her. She moves into the office a bit more, because she can’t be sure what he plans to do to her in front of all these people, and she’s standing sort of in the corner of the office when he finally makes his way to her.

He stops in front of her, and she straightens a bit on her heels. She still has to strain her neck to look up at him, he’s so close, but she’s not complaining, especially when the scent of him is surrounding her like a cloud and his eyes are intent on her face. 

It’s been a mere few days since she’s seen him last, but standing in front of him now, she feels like it’s been weeks, _months_ even, since she’s been able to lay her eyes on him, to revel in his presence. She had really thought that a week without him would be fine. She’d done it the week before, and months, years, before then, so what was a couple days? She’s flummoxed, surprised at how deeply the feeling of having missed him settles at the core of her. She’d gotten the parts of him that had made her soul sing, but she’s missed his presence, his ability to both excite her and calm her, his ability to make the proverbial butterflies swarm at the same time that he grounds her. It’s almost like she’s been missing some important part of her, a limb or even just her heart maybe, what with how it seems to beat a sharp tattoo, as if it’s finding its place back in her chest. She wonders if she’s always felt this way when it comes to Barry or if this is some new phenomenon. 

He waits for her to speak, and she takes her time, content to watch him watch her. At some point he must have put his mug down, because his hands are empty and Iris finds that she misses those long fingers traipsing up the side of her torso, gliding up the curve of her jaw. She likes the way that he looks at her, like she’s some sort of goddess or celestial being. Like she’s beautiful and whole and the only woman he’s ever seen by his side.

Which she’ll blame for what she says next, the nervousness of it all. “You have a lot of detective girlfriends, huh?”

It certainly isn’t what she meant to say, but she stands by it. Barry’s responding grin is automatic, teeth white against his skin. He reaches up to touch her; she can tell because her body stills, the anticipation so strong she feels her knees go weak, and she practically fucking _melts_ when hooks his index finger under her chin, his thumb pressing into her bottom lip.

“I told you there are no other girls, Iris.”

She hums. “So they all just grin at you like that?”

Barry lifts an eyebrow, that half grin on his face, and he moves even closer to her. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Iris is aware that even in this office, people can still see them and he definitely shouldn’t be close to her like this. But there is a pointed quiver in her thighs, and he’s begun to trace along the edge of her bottom lip.

“I think I like this jealous side of you,” Barry near-whispers.

She blinks, momentarily dazed. “I’m not jealous.”

“It’s just you, West,” he says, and his expression softens, his fingers on her face a lighter touch as he brings her forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Y’all do know that this is a place of business, right?” 

The sound of her dad’s voice causes them both to jump, and Barry backs away from her like he’s been burned, nearly breaking the door down as he backs into it. It’s Iris’s turn to grin at him as he flounders, a bit glad to see that clumsy Barry, the one she’d first had the crush on, is still in there somewhere.

“Sorry, Joe,” Barry mutters.

“Yeah, sorry dad,” Iris adds. “We were just saying hello.”

Her dad, who has moved over to his desk, gives them both a pointed look before he shakes his head and moves toward his desk. Barry, having recovered, walks back over to where she’s still standing on the other side of the office wall. His eyes gleam behind the lenses of his glasses.

“I’ve got to get back downstairs,” he tells her. “Talk later?”

She nods, wishing she could pull him into her and kiss him silly. “Yeah.”

He shoots her a grin, as if he knows what she’s thinking, and then gives her a quick kiss on her cheek before heading for the door.

“See ya, Joe,” he calls back.

“Bye, Barry.”

Iris watches as he walks back out into the bullpen, those long legs carrying him quickly to the stairs that lead down into the labs. When she turns back, her dad is looking at her with an amused smile on his face.

“It’s so good to see you too, baby girl.”

She breathes out and gives him an apologetic smile of her own. “Sorry, dad. It’s good to see you.” She walks over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Ready?”

He nods. “Let’s do it.”

She and her dad go to their favorite restaurant. It’s a diner, not quite like the one they’d gone to when they were on the way to Georgia, but the two levels do feature several leather padded booths and a jukebox constantly playing 90s rock music. They are both overdressed for a place where the waitstaff wears jeans and a t-shirt with _Tally’s Restaurant and Bar_ printed on the front, but it’s the sort of place with ice cold beer and great burgers, so her dad always wants to come. The restaurant is decorated in red and yellow and chrome, with a full bar to the left when you walk in and a row of booths on the right that lead to a set of stairs. The next level, still fully visible from the bottom floor, features several more booths and that jukebox playing right now.

When she was a little girl, especially after her mom had first passed, they would come to Tally’s, just the two of them, and Joe would drink a beer while Iris stuffed herself with french fries. Sometimes they’d talk, sometimes they wouldn’t, each lost in their own thoughts about the woman who’d left such a gaping hole in both of their lives. Now, this is where they come when either of them do want to talk about something important. Beer and fries has evolved into scotch and wine, but the feeling of trust she gets her with her dad is the same.

It’s the middle of the week, and lunch no less, so when the waitress comes, Iris just orders water with extra lemon and her dad gets a Coke, and they order a double order of fries to share. While they wait for their fries, they talk a little bit to just catch up. He tells her what he can about some recent cases; she explains to him a few of the stories they’re working on at _The Citizen._

It’s only after their food comes, placed down on their table by a college-aged young man who looks at Iris in slight wide-eyed awe,that he wonders, “So what did you want to talk about?”

She knows that she’s liable to talk around the issue before she gets to the points, so she just tells him.

“Barry and I were faking it.”

Her dad pauses with a fry poised for his mouth. “Say what now?”

“Barry and I were faking it.”

She watches as he sits back, dropping the fry he was about to eat. He stares at her across the booth. She watches as he takes a long sip of his coke, wiping at his mouth before he locks eyes with her again.

“Iris, explain.”

She’s quick to assure him. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Explain.”

She bites at her lip. “Before the gala, Barry asked me to pretend to date him because he didn’t want to take someone he wasn’t serious about to his parent’s event.”

“Why would he ask you to do that? I thought you all disliked each other?”

Iris frowns. “We haven’t actually talked about it, but I think it had a lot to do with our history. Underneath all that fighting were actual feelings, and maybe Barry wanted a reason to not fight.”

Her dad’s face tightens in confusion, and he reaches up to rub at his forehead. “Finish.”

“The gala was supposed to be a one-off. It wasn’t supposed to go past that, but then, the article happened.”

“What article?”

Iris explains to him all of it...most of it. From asking him to continue the facade to going to dinner with his parents and inviting him on the trip, she explains that they’d only been pretending up to a point. She tries to tell him, without going into too much detail, that during this time, their antagonistic tendencies had managed to make them confront their actual feelings, to talk more about what they’d meant to each other back then, what they mean to each other now. 

“And last week?” he wants to know. “Were you all still pretending?”

“Well, I was, uh, ignoring him.”  
He nods as if that’s something he should have known. “I’m disappointed that you lied to me, Iris.”

“I know.” She pushes back the braids that have fallen into her face. “I, I went and talked to mom about it.”

His eyes widen with curiosity.

“I just wanted to get it off my chest,” she says. “Once Barry started making it known that he felt more for me, I tried to push him away. I remember watching you and mom be so in love and fall apart so spectacularly that it felt counterproductive to try to be with someone, to be with Barry, knowing that I can love him more than anything and he could leave me again, like he did before.”

She watches the display of emotions that cross Joe’s face. There is guilt there, that ever present emotion that crosses his face when she brings up Francine West. There’s some regret mixed in too.

“You and Barry are not me and Francine.” He says it in a way that brooks no argument. But he calms down a bit, plays a little with his straw in his pop, and then gives Iris his attention.

“Francine and I didn’t handle our break up well. I loved your mother so much. Even when we were pulling apart, I loved her. But we grew apart. We were in our twenties when we got married and had you. I had just started on the beat and your mother was still in law school. It was hard, but we made it work.”

She notes the drum of emotion in his words and she moves over to the other side of the booth. He lets her in, throwing an arm over her shoulder as he finishes.

“We were having problems, obviously, and I can’t even really remember now what they had stemmed from. I think they were growing pains, mostly. Juggling two demanding careers and a very precocious toddler had taken a toll on us. We didn’t handle it well. And I'm so so sorry you had to see that. That you were hurt enough by it to let it affect you so much.”

Her dad shifts as much as he can so that he can look into her eyes. He pulls his arm back enough to grip her shoulder instead.

“But maybe your separation was a good thing. You and Barry could have very well gotten together when you were young and it could have very well gone wrong. Maybe you needed this time to figure this out.

But maybe not. You and Barry have always been on this wavelength that me and your mother, that Barry’s parents, never quite understood. I think that tells me a lot more about you guys’ chance for survival.”

She lets his words wash over her, lets it strengthen her resolve. She and Barry have a good chance for survival. She’ll take that.

Iris apologizes again to her dad, who warns her the next time she lies to him, they’ll be dire consequences. They finish their fries on a lighter note and then he drops her back off in front of her office. Before she can go inside, he calls her back, and she leans into the window of his car.

“I want you to know I’m proud of you,” he tells her.

She grins. “Thanks, dad.”

***********

She gets Barry’s message to call her as she walks through her front door after work. She texts back to let him know she’ll call him in a bit, and then she drops her laptop bag on the sofa before going into her bedroom to change into workout gear.

She spends nearly an hour with the boxing bag, some Migos bursting from her speakers, punching out her frustrations for the week. The conversations with her parents have been eye-opening in the way they tend to be for adults who finally realize that their parents have been human all along. The entire situation with Barry has been staggering in that it feels like she’s fallen in love in just a matter of days, even if the reality is that those emotions have always been there, stifled and pushed down until they became practically unrecognizable. She punches out the sexual frustration too, the apprehension at getting to see Barry in a couple days. She’s… _impatient_ to see what Saturday with Barry brings, what getaway he has planned for her, so much so that the reason for Saturday's ceremony is a but a blip on her radar.

(Well, that’s not wholly true. Iris is extremely nervous about the awards ceremony, but she knows that she’s only getting started with _The Citizen_. And, well, she’ll get to see Barry in two days so there’s still that.)

She showers after her workout and throws on a t-shirt and a pair of panties before she grabs a half-eaten carton of ice cream from the freezer and climbs into bed. She eats a few spoonfuls before she pulls her phone off of the charger and finds Barry’s number. She presses his name.

“Hey, baby.”

Iris will never admit it to Barry, but she likes the way he calls her baby, likes how possessive he sounds when he says it.

“Hi.”

“It was good seeing you today.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Ditto.”

Barry chuckles. “That’s all you got for me?”

“Is there something else I’m supposed to be giving you?”

“A little bit more excitement. Some oomph, you know.”

In a space where he can’t see her, Iris doesn’t curb her grin. She adopts a throatier tone of voice. “Baby, it was so good to see you today.”

There is a short pause before Barry clears his throat. “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

Iris laughs out loud. “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot.”

She shakes her head because, apparently, it’s true. She eats a few more bites of her ice cream, snuggling deeper into her blankets.

“My dad knows the truth about us,” she blurts.

“Yeah, I know. He called me into his office after he got back from lunch with you.”

That makes Iris more alert. “Wait, what did he say? Did he say something crazy? Did he threaten you?”

“No,” Barry pauses. “Well, he told me that as much as he loves me, you and Wally are his only priorities so I could read between the lines.”

Iris hums. That wasn’t so bad. She’s seen her dad tear into boys he thought might have even hurt her feelings, so knowing that he hadn’t done so with Barry pleases her.

“And he asked me my intentions moving forward,” Barry adds, breaking into her thoughts.

They let that sit for a moment, Iris breaking it apart and trying to figure out how he might have answered it. Because as much soul searching as she’s done this week, what if he’s done some too?

“And what are they?” she asks him, finally. “What are your intentions?”

“Iris,” he says, and his voice is a bit harder than she figures it should be. “I’ve told you before and I’ll keep telling you until you believe it. I love you. I was an idiot kid and I’ll never leave you again.”

She takes in what he’s telling her, letting the words sink in.

“I want you, Iris. I want _us_. I want your snarky mouth and your eye rolls. I want your quiet attention and your soft smiles. I want your intelligence and your compassion. I want your fingers tracing my moles when you think I’m asleep and I want your body. God, baby, I want your body as often as I can sink into it. I want all of you, West.”

She blinks back tears, bites down on her lip to keep from sobbing at what he’s saying. It would be easy to discredit him, to discount what he’s trying to tell her, but she can only hear the truth of it in his words, can only hear how much he really wants her. Still, she has to ask, “What do I get?”

“Whatever you want, Iris. All you ever have to do is ask me. And I’ll give it to you. So I guess the question is, what do you want?”

“This,” she says, because she’s tired of overthinking and finding ways for this not to be. “I want you. I,” she swallows. She finds it so much easier to put down her thoughts on paper but she thinks—she knows—she should try for him. “I want that stupid smirk you’re always giving me, and I want the way you look at me like you’ve been waiting for me your entire life. I even want how we argue because it’s passionate and it’s real, and I never have to mince words with you.

I, I want the way you fuck me, which is not the most important thing, but when you’re talking to me when you’re in me, I definitely feel desired and I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever felt as desired as I do now.

I want the way you love me. We’re new in this same way that we’re not really. You know so much about who I am to the core and I want to feel safe with you. I think I can, I think I _do_ feel safe with you and I… I want all of you too, Barry.”

The silence this time is charged, crackling with heat and energy. Crackling with the sort of love that builds as years pass, that keeps digging and burrowing, despite whatever burdens they’ve been charged with.

“So, let’s play nice, West?”

“Yeah, Allen,” she says, smiling softly until she knows he can hear it in her voice. “Let’s play nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I'm so sorry that this took so long. Please forgive me.
> 
> It's our penultimate chapter, y'all. I'm really sad to see this one end. Barry's chapter will be next. We'll have the gala, a secret getaway, and a nice tidy (ish) resolution. I'm already excited about writing it so I really hope I can get it to you all sooner rather than later. And if not, be ready for like 15K words. :)
> 
> As always, your comments give me life. Literally. Writing this during the pandemic and having so many of you truly care for and love this fic has def been a bright spot in an otherwise fairly bleak time. So comment some more! Tell me what you think. What'd you like? What'd you love? What are your predictions?
> 
> Be safe out there. Take care of yourselves. It's getting cooler and darker and voting day is almost here so make sure you're doing what you need to do you be whole and human. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle


	12. XII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxious Barry, a flirty awards ceremony, and a confrontation that gets a little… passionate.

XII.

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_

_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do_

Waiting several days to see Iris West has taken a toll on Barry. For much of the week, he’s been in a constant state of arousal. He’ll give himself the fact that he’s always had a rather healthy sexual appetite, even if he had been celibate for a few months before he and Iris began their charade. But he’s been thinking about her, _dreaming_ about Iris in ways he’s never thought about another woman, and he’s so hardup for her that he might as well be a livewire, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

But more notably, as he stands outside of her apartment building, hands in the pockets of his suit pants, he feels...well, he feels nervous. It’s their first time together after they’ve made themselves official, and Barry can admit that he’s afraid that she’ll take one look at him and decide she’s changed her mind. It’s irrational, he knows. In fact, when they’d video chatted the night before, he’d been able to coax a soft, “I can’t wait to see you,” out of her. Still, Barry has never been able to think particularly straight where Iris is concerned and he figures it makes no sense for him to start now.

His week has been one of nonstop movement. The heat must be getting to Central City’s citizens because there has been an uptick in the number of violent crimes, shootings, carjackings, robberies, and it’s been a fight to get crime scenes and evidence processed before police officers invaded their lab, rushing them for answers. The lack of time to do much of anything besides work and sleep had kept him from digging too deep into the conversations he’d had with Iris. From the night she’d come over to his place after the benefit, to the day after when they’d talked on the phone well into the night, to just two days ago, when she’d agreed to be his, Barry hadn’t truly thought about what it all means. Those thoughts have been harboring all day, though. She’s been on his mind constantly. 

The hours have gone by in much of a haze for Barry, and as he stands outside where Iris has told him to wait, he thinks back on it. He’d woken up far too early for a Saturday morning he didn’t have to work, anxious anticipation churning in his gut. Stumbling into his kitchen in just his boxers, he’d gotten a pot of coffee percolating and put a bagel into the toaster. Breakfast ready, he’d sat down at his kitchen table and turned his attention to Iris.

Their conversation the Saturday before had done much to alleviate some of the stress of their past. He knew explaining his feelings for her hadn’t done enough to make up for the way he’d treated her, but it was the truth. High school—and let’s be honest, middle school—Barry had been so taken with Iris, so fucking gone on her, that no matter what he’d tried to say to her, it had come off as rude or condescending, even when he hadn’t meant for it to be. And then he _had_ meant for it to be, her eyes flashing and her chest heaving and his dick hardening every time he got her riled up. In his mind, if he’d had to deal with her effect on him (the stammered heart beat, the tied tongue), then provoking her to anger seemed like a viable counter. It was only fair, right? He recognizes now the pettiness of it all, the _ridiculousness_ of it all. But any attention from Iris had been what he’d craved and that had been the only way he’d known how to get it.

For all that, he still can’t believe she’d felt something for him outside of anger and hurt. That’s what’s been spinning inside his head, the idea that all of this time, that through all of these years, they could have probably been something more. Or maybe, he recognizes, they could have crashed and burned before they got to this point. Maybe they needed to, he doesn’t know, go through this in order to come back together, older, arguably wiser, more likely to stick it out in a way that they obviously hadn’t been able to as children.

That last notion had stuck with him, mounting, until his ringing telephone had broken into his musings.

“Hey, mom,” he’d answered, after seeing her picture smiling back at him from the screen.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Her voice on the other end had been a little too chipper for 8 o’clock in the morning. “I managed to get someone out to the cabin, so it should all be good to go now. The cabin’s aired out, lights are on, and they’ve even picked up the snacks you asked for.”

“Thanks, mom. I really appreciate that.” He’d taken a long sip from his now cooling coffee. “I definitely wouldn’t have been able to get someone out there in time.”

“Well, anything for you, honey.” There was a pause on her end, a sign that she’d had more questions. It’s the pause that’s always been the bane of his existence, getting him to spill pretty much any of his teenage indiscretions without much prompting. 

“Yes, mom?”

She hadn’t pretended to not know what he’d meant. “I’m just wondering. What’s all this for? Didn’t you and Iris just come from a vacation? Can you afford the time off? Does this mean you’re starting to pull back from the station?”

Barry’s eyes had rolled upward, a hand had ruffled his already sleep-mussed hair. Months before he and Iris had decided to play their game, he’d had a slight falling out with his parents. It hadn’t been anything particularly serious, but their insistence on butting into, and giving unsolicited advice on, his life had taken a bit of a toll on their relationship. 

Barry loves his job, but his parents had wondered, vocally and often, if he were not settling with forensic science. Even more nerve wracking had been their constant lamentation of his love life, or rather what passed as. He’d been single for a while before he started up with Patty, and they’d only even been together for a couple of months. It’d been a largely sexual relationship; the type that hadn’t been at all common for Barry. He’d been taken by her confidence, and her affinity for tying him to his own bed posts had been a welcome distraction from pining after Iris, something that had gotten stronger the more he’d seen her around CCPD. Patty had taught him some things: about what he did and didn’t want, inside and outside of the bedroom. His parents hadn’t known that, however, had thought the amount of time he’d been spending with her meant that they were getting serious. They hadn’t been; he’d actually been on the cusp of breaking it off altogether. But Henry and Nora Allen had made it a point to make sure he’d understood how much they disapproved, and he’d responded in kind. They had sort of gone on in their normal way, but with that elephant large and looming behind them.

He’d thought about Iris reaching out to tell her father the truth, about that sort of unwavering support she gets from Joe. He’s always liked that about the West family. Had been envious of it actually. He’d only known glimpses of what Iris’s life had been like without her mother, and he’d never wished for the demise of one his own parents. But he knew that Joe West had stepped up to the plate in a way that showed Iris and Wally that they’d never have to question Joe’s love for them or his trust in their decisions. There was no doubt that Barry’s parents loved him, that they only wanted what they thought was best for him. He only wished that they trusted he knew for himself.

“It’s all fine, mom,” he’d told her, hoping that he’d kept the exasperation out of his voice. “I’m taking Cisco’s next on-call shift. And I’m not looking into other avenues.”

“Okay, but…”

He hadn’t let her finish her statement. “And I really need you and dad to stop pushing me to look at different jobs. I _like_ what I do; I like the pace of my job, the fact that I’m never sure what I’ll get; the fact that I’m helping people. It may not be in the way that you and dad have helped so many people, but it’s what I’m doing and I don’t need you two trying to minimize that.”

She’d been silent on the phone for a long while. “Okay.”

“I’m serious, mom. I didn’t like not spending time with you and Dad these past few months. But I'm an adult, and I won’t sit around while you all sit around and tell me all the things I’m doing wrong.”

It wasn’t the conversation he had meant to have with her when he’d called her the day before to ask if she could help prepare the cabin for him and Iris. But taking a page out of Iris’s book—something Barry thinks much of Central City would be better off for doing—he’d wanted to resolve what he could.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

He’d then explained about the situation with Iris, his asking her to pretend to be his girlfriend to ward them off, her need to continue the ruse to keep her name out of the papers. He didn’t go too deep into the details, but he had explained how much closer they’d gotten, how she’d backtracked when she wasn’t sure of his intentions, and how now, finally, after years of what he’d thought was unrequited love, they were going to give them a real try. 

In hindsight, Barry should have recognized the error of wanting his parents to trust him and then dumping their previous dumpster fire of a relationship on his mom. She’d surprised him, though.

“Oh, my sweet baby boy,” she’d said, an endearment that he hadn’t heard her use in years. “I didn’t know that you and Iris had gone through all that.”

By the time he'd gotten off the phone, he’d felt like he’d needed to go back to bed. But he’d agreed to another dinner with both his parents and Iris, and a weight had seemed to be lifted. And in some way, he’d felt further validation of his relationship with Iris.

Because the plan was to pick up Iris at 6 that evening, he’d spent the rest of his morning working from his couch, a crime show full of inaccuracies on low on his television in the background. He’d managed to get a couple reports done before sitting on his couch proved too nerveracking, and he’d gone out for a run along the river, Iris and the sound of her voice telling him _“I want the way you fuck me”_ never really far from his mind. It hadn’t been a very productive run.

Lunch had been a coffee and sandwich from Jitter’s, where the pretty barista who was usually there wasn’t, so he’d tried to make awkward conversation with the sullen looking teenager behind the counter. He’d tossed and turned for about an hour after he’d gotten home and showered, but then had given up on the nap he was too wired to take. He’d eventually just started getting ready hours early: packing for their weekend; trying to do something with his hair and failing, trimming at his facial hair until there was just a hint of scruff because he remembered that once, Iris had told him she didn’t hate it. All in all, a day strangely spent.

Now, he leans against the side of his car, waiting outside as she’d told him to do. There’s some foot traffic in the area, and he watches a few couples and friend groups walk past him, giving him curious looks as they do. He can only imagine what he looks like, standing next to an expensive car in a dark tan suit, the color almost like muted gold, with unruly hair. He’s paired it with a white shirt—no tie, a button open at the throat—and loafers. He thinks that he looks nice enough that he won’t embarrass Iris when pictures are snapped of them together, but not so much that he’ll upstage her. He does recognize, if he abhors, the attention he gets.

The sound of the door opening grabs his attention and Barry looks up on instinct. 

Then he freezes.

Suddenly, he can’t move. Every single part of his body tenses, his feet curling in his shoes, his hands balled into fists, his stomach suspended, eyes unblinking. Barry knows, he _knows,_ how beautiful she is, how beautiful she’s always been. But there is something about Iris dressed like this, in a dress that caresses her body as much as he wants to, in a dress that’s his favorite color, that makes him want to drop to his knees and worship her until he takes his very last breath. 

“Barry?” he hears her voice, and it mobilizes him. He steps away from his Mercedes, pulling his hands out of his pockets, already reaching for her although she hasn’t moved very far from the door. 

“I-Iris,” he stammers because, for all intents and purposes, he’s truly speechless. Because Iris is standing there, in that, in that _dress,_ though there has to be some other word for how the gauzy sort of material drapes her body. The dress is dark red, in a vaguely see-through fabric layered until it’s not, with hints of gold sparkles that catch the light. It has long sleeves, and a neckline that plunges near to her belly button, the hint of the soft brown swells of her breasts making his mouth water. It clings to the top part of her, and then drapes off her hips and down to the floor, the material spreading out inches past her feet. When she does, finally, start to walk toward him, Barry catches the tall gold stilettos she’s wearing, simple shoes with a strap over her dark red painted toes and around her delicate ankle. Her braids are twisted up into a neat bun on the top of her head, showing the gold and ruby studs at her ears. What really makes Barry want to turn her around and take her back up to her bedroom is the double split, so high it’s probably a touch indecent, but nothing in Barry wants to complain at the long brown legs he’s staring at so intently, he thinks his eyes glaze over.

“Barry?”

He’s stopped right in front of her without realizing it, hands still stretched out as if to grab her. He brings his hands back to himself, not wanting to touch her yet for fear he won’t ever stop. He gives her another long once-over, before catching her eyes again, and there’s an amalgamation of feeling there: some lust and angst, some uncertainty too, and then something else nestled deeper down, something bare, and more delicate, and a lot like how it must feel to be in a perpetual free fall, scared and exhilarated all at once.

“Iris, you look…” his voice trails off because nothing he says will capture how breathtaking she is right now.

She gives him a smile, one that lifts her lips and softens her eyes. “Thanks.” She performs a perusal of her own. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He can’t help it; he preens at the compliment, standing straighter. 

“Had to make sure I complimented you,” he explains, and the cheesy line is worth it to see the way she rolls her eyes to the sky before biting at her lips to hide her widening smile.

“Are you ready?”

She nods, holding out the bag in front of her that he was too busy admiring her in that dress to notice. He grabs the handle, jerking a little at its heft.

“What have you got in here?”

“You didn’t tell me where we were going,” she says. “I had to be prepared.”

“Prepared would be you in nothing all weekend.”

Iris scowls and Barry grins at her. He holds the door for her as she gathers her dress and slides into the seat of his car. Then, he tosses her bag in the trunk next to his before hopping into the driver’s seat. They’re settled into his car and he’s pulling out into traffic when she asks,

“Are you really taking me away to have sex with me for two days?”

He switches lanes before answering. “How amenable would you be if I told you yes?”

“Really, Barry?”

With a laugh, he reaches over to grab her hand, slipping his fingers between hers. Her hands are soft, her nails painted a soft pale gold that matches her shoes. Her hands are so much smaller than his, but he likes how neatly they seem to fit into his.

“No,” he explains. “I wanted us to go where we could be alone. We’re still figuring us out, and I know it’s going to take more than a weekend, but I thought going away, being alone for real, might do us some good. I thought we could work on us a little bit.”

His attention is still focused on the road, but she’s quiet for so long that he chances a look at her across the console. She’s staring back at him.

“I hate when you sappy shit like that.”

Barry rubs the back of her hand with his thumb. “No, you don’t.”

She hums, but doesn’t make any other noise of disagreement. Barry feels good about that.

The hotel is only about eight minutes from Iris’s apartment, but it takes them over fifteen with the number of people all headed to the same place. Barry doesn’t know much about Central City’s Newspaper Awards of Honor, but he does know the city he was born and raised in. Any reason for the so-called elite of Central City to get dressed up and drink champagne on someone else’s dime is one they’re going to take. This one is just a little different, he thinks, in that instead of fundraisers that are tax write-offs for the city’s wealthy, this ceremony at least honors some people who do their jobs to keep the citizen’s informed and aware of what’s going on in their neighborhoods.

It’s been a while since Barry has been a plus one at an event like this, his parents’ gala notwithstanding. When he was in college and still trying to date, his parents or Oliver had introduced him to women who lived for events like this. When the relationships kept falling flat and Barry began realizing that dating Iris out of his system hadn’t worked, he’d mostly stopped dating completely and showed up stag to most events. This is real in the way that the gala wasn’t, and Barry recognizes the significance of being able to truly support Iris tonight.

When they finally get to the hotel, Barry pulls his car in next to the valet, two young men no older than 20. One hurries around to the driver’s side, stepping back as Barry unfolds himself from the car. The other opens the door for Iris, and Barry catches the way his eyes widen as Iris steps out of the car: her heeled foot, her long brown leg, the dress that he thinks should be framed after tonight. The valet stumbles back a little, lips parted in awe as he continues to stare at Iris, blinking rapidly when Iris gives him a smile and a sweet “thank you.”

Annoyed, Barry moves past him and reaches for Iris’s hand, grumbling “close your mouth, kid.”

“Barry!” Iris admonishes, slapping at his hand instead of holding it.

“What?”

“You’re being rude. He’s just a kid.”

She grips at his wrist and pulls him along, shooting another smile, this one apologetic, at the valet as she does. Barry follows after her, grumbling, “he wasn’t looking at you like he was a kid.”

It’s only when they’ve stopped in the busy hallway, standing against a wall behind a group of people and waiting for the elevator that Barry notices her smirk.

“What?” he asks, scowling a little. 

The curve of her lips deepens. “You can’t talk about me being jealous and then be it yourself.”

Barry shrugs, before stepping closer to her and wrapping an arm around her waist and pressing her against him.

“I’ll claim it though,” he tells her. “I don’t want anyone looking at my girlfriend like that but me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Oh your girlfriend, huh?”

He squeezes her where his hand is sitting at her hip. “I thought we settled this last night.”

He can feel her push her weight into him, leaning into him. “Sure, but the word girlfriend never came up.”

The ping of the elevator sounds, but Barry ignores it—and the look he knows he’s getting from those around them—to lift her chin so that she’s looking directly at him. Her eyes are such a deep shade of brown, like dark chocolate until the light hits them, and then they’re a touch lighter, more like dark whiskey in an old-fashioned glass. He could stand there forever, and watch the way she stares back at him, gaze boldly holding his. He could endlessly eye her plump mouth, those lips he dreams about pressing against his, against his skin, wrapped around his sex. He could touch her, just like this, her body pressed into him, his hands on her hips, for hours on end. 

“I thought it was implied,” he explains. “But, just in case it wasn’t, you’re mine, Iris. And I’m yours.”

She averts her gaze, or tries to, but Barry grabs her chin between his thumb and forefinger and makes her hold his stare.

“Tell me you understand that, Iris.”

“Have you always been this pushy?”

He waits patiently and she huffs out a breath. “Yes, I understand.”

“Tell me that you’re mine, Iris.”

The wait is only a touch longer this time. 

“I’m yours.”

He can’t help how wide his grin is, and as he traces the curve of her bottom lip with his thumb, he leans down to kiss her.

“Absolutely not.” She twists from his grasp. “Come on, I don’t want to have to wait for another elevator. And all these people are staring.”

They manage to squeeze onto the elevator, in front of several older people dressed to the nines. Because of how full it is, Iris has to fit herself against his front, and only for propriety’s sake does Barry not pull her to rest snuggly against him. Instead, he contents himself to inhale her scent of shea butter and honeysuckle, and think about being alone with her later.

The elevator takes them up the 20 floors until it reaches the rooftop, and then they all step out. Barry looks around in amazement. They’ve transformed the rooftop of the hotel into a banquet hall. A large stage is situated at one end, with a screen acting as the backdrop, articles by the nominated playing slowly on it. A jazz band is set up in one corner of the stage, a podium on the other. Two different bars are placed at either end of the roof, both on the side that faces out at Main Street. Large circular tables—ones that fit about 12 people—are arranged around the rest of the roof, topped with white lace tablecloths and wildflower arrangements. Strings of lights flow overhead, and the effect is still somehow both elegant and polished.

“And I thought your parents’ gala was pretentious.”

Barry turns to look at Iris who’s just spoken beside him, a half grin on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. He glances around again.

“You know,” he says to her, “in my experience, reporters tend to be just as snooty.”

“Just trying to keep up with the likes of you,” she quips as she turns to pinch his cheek.

He grabs at her hand before she can touch his face, catching her fingers. He holds on to her, pulling her closer, until she’s flush against him.

“What have I told you about doing that?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t tell me what to do,” she says, but it doesn’t give the effect that she wants it to, because when she looks back at him, her deep brown eyes are a touch darker, and her red painted lips are parted.

“No?” he responds, voice dipping, just a bit lower, and he can’t help the smirk he gives her when she shakes her head. “Kiss me.”

It’s a command, one he punctuates by sliding a hand around to rest on her lower back and closing the scant bit of distance between them. He watches as her eyes drop down to his mouth before they return to his, and it’s a standoff. Her body is so soft beneath his palm, her skin warm through the lightweight fabric. The tips of his fingers _just_ press against the curve of her ass, and her breath catches in her throat at the half-hard feel of him, a state he’s been in since he saw her walking out of her front door. Her slick, pink tongue flicks out to wet her painted mouth, and Barry has to start recalling the names of Jupiter's moons for the strength to not take her right there. He leans down until his mouth is a few inches from hers.

“Kiss me, Iris,” he says, and this time it’s but a whisper. “Or I’ll be forced to punish you.”

Iris blinks, and Barry watches on in contained amusement as her pupils widen, her chocolate irises shrinking. He feels her as she nearly falls onto him, her hand clutching tighter at the one he’s still holding, but she doesn’t lean in any further to do as he’s told her. He smiles, glad for her stubbornness, and he brushes his mouth against hers and slides his hand down to cup one ass cheek, before he leans down to speak into her ear. “God, I can’t wait to spank this…”

“Are y’all really doing this? In front of all these people?”

Barry knows that he doesn’t mistake Iris’s shiver before she pulls away from him and turns to her best friend, standing there in all her glory. Linda looks lovely, as usual. Her dress is black, with long sleeves and a thin belt around her waist. The skirt of the dress is in a satin material that juts out from her hips and falls to the floor. Barry can tell that her shoes must be as tall as Iris’s because her head reaches his shoulder.

“We’re not in front of anybody,” Iris says, and it’s only because he’s listening for it that he hears the waver in her voice.

“Hmmm,” Linda hums. “I caught y’all about to suck face. I imagine other people did too.”

“You saw it because you were probably looking, perv.”

Linda shrugs, tossing her long, straightened hair over her shoulder as she gazes at the both of them. “Perv? I’m not the one about to have sex in a rooftop in front of a hundred people.”

“Was there a reason for your interruption?” Iris asks.

“No,” Linda beams, and Iris sort of scowls at her best friend. Barry looks at the two and wonders absently if faint antagonism is just the way Iris shows her love.

“I like this,” Linda says to them, waving her hands between them. “Very Brad and Angelina.” She pauses. "Or maybe like Beyonce' and Brad."

Iris looks at Barry before looking down at herself and back to Linda. “I’ll take it.”

“C’mon.” Linda turns and starts walking the way she came from. “I’ll show you where our table is. They put us next to those old duds at the _Central City World,_ and they’ve already called the lights and the floral arrangements unnecessary.”

They follow after Linda to where their table is, a couple of rows back from the stage. The other two women that round out _The Citizen_ are standing at their table, their plus ones next to them. Cisco is talking to a tall man in a crisp black tuxedo, his dark hair perfectly coiffed, his brown skin like the color chestnut. 

“Oh my God, Iris, look at you,” Kamilla squeals, moving fluidly in her tight yellow dress to pull Iris away from his grasp and into their circle. Allegra, who Barry doesn’t think he’s ever seen smile—or maybe even heard talk—gives a smile to her boss, her own dress white and studded.

Barry moves over to where Cisco and Allegra’s date, an attorney, are talking.

“I’m just welcoming Nivaan to the significant other club,” Cisco says. “Linda’s new boo will be along later and we can add her to the fold as well.”

“Oh, Allegra and I are still just feeling it out, I think,” he responds, but the way he gazes over at the woman let’s Barry know there isn’t actually much he has to think about.

“Sure.” Cisco claps his hand on the man’s shoulder. “But I’m telling you, this group of women will have your nose wide open and you will happily follow them to your demise.”

Barry shakes his head at the drama of his own best friend, but when he looks over at Iris, her hand around Kamilla’s wrist and a grin on her face as she talks to Allegra, there’s nothing in him that disagrees with that testament.

“It’s true,” Barry says. “I’ve been pining after Iris since I was five, and it’s been the worst and the best part of my existence.”

Cisco nods his head at Barry as if that’s all the proof Nivaan needs, which it must be because the other man gives two sharp nods of understanding before leading them into a conversation about their jobs.

Nivaan has just finished telling them a story about a custody case he’d worked on involving two women and their alpaca when Kamilla comes over with her phone outstretched to Cisco.

“Hey babe, can you take our picture?”

“Of course.”

As they line up, Barry takes note of the four beautiful women bickering and laughing while they find proper positions. He thinks that they’ve got something special, a newspaper founded and worked entirely by women, one Black, two East Asian-American, another Latina. Barry knows that Cisco isn’t wrong. They are each a force to be reckoned with: bold and brilliant, sharp and stunning. Even with personalities as different as each of them have, they have in common that, that _something,_ that makes everything they touch gold, that makes people fall all over their feet in respect, in admiration, in _love_ with them, even if their racist society would like them to believe differently. They are also all exceptionally talented, even if they are new at this newspaper thing, and Barry hopes they aren’t snubbed at this award ceremony.

Minutes of pictures later, Iris declares they should mingle. Couples split up, with Linda slinking off to join a gorgeous dark skinned woman with deep red dreadlocks. When she presses a kiss to the other woman’s mouth, Barry figures this is the new boo. Iris’s, “oh, I didn’t know she was bringing her,” confirms it.

They spend the time before the actual ceremony walking around and mingling. They don’t network in the same ways as is usual for events such as this. They all have jobs that are in competition, and so Barry follows Iris as she makes conversation with the people she’s, in a nutshell, trying to beat out in steady viewership. There is some camaraderie, some jabs that aren’t completely light-hearted. He’s introduced to people who’ve written about him but he’s never met. He’s reacquainted with a couple of people he has.

It’s fascinating to watch, though, because he doesn’t think either Iris or these people understand how enamored they are with her. She holds court for them, these people who, outside the realm of her magnetism, see themselves as her betters. But she talks, and they listen; she laughs, and they go slack-jawed. And no one can take their eyes off of her. Barry would be jealous of the attention but he can’t be, not when she’s in her element—and not when she keeps her hand firmly clutching his, or when she absentmindedly brushes against his chest when she laughs so hard she has to turn her face into his shoulder.

At one point, as they’re standing near the edge of the roof, hoping to catch sight of someone with a tray of champagne, Iris turns to Barry to fix his collar. Because he can’t help it, he wraps his arm around her waist and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“You’re really in your element, you know,” he tells her.

She looks up, hands now brushing at his throat, eyes a bit wide. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do. I joke about you being good with parents, but you’re good with everyone. You make people feel seen, heard. That’s a gift.”

The smile he gets is full and genuine.

Champagne comes then and they grab a glass before they’re off to do more mingling. They cross paths with the _Citizen_ crew again and the women exchange some of gossip they’ve gotten from various media outlets.

Iris gets pulled away by a tiny white woman with hair that’s almost yellow, and Barry wanders. Somehow, he eventually finds himself standing next to Iris’s ex, who had been talking to a man who calls him over. The other man, Gary Williams—tall and dark and bald—is someone Barry sees often at these types of events and they’ve chatted in that superficial way of people who run in the same circles but don’t really know each other. He’s a couple of years older than Barry, and he’s been photographed by the man before, years ago in a spread about the robotics club Barry still volunteers with.

“Gary, good to see you man,” he greets with a handshake and a clap on the back.

“Always a pleasure, Allen,” he says. “So do you know Scott Evans?”

Barry turns to the taller man, trying not to be put off by his handsome features, those so much more like the other men Barry has seen Iris date. Even in high school, she’d favored dark-skinned men (or men darker than him at any rate) who wore their muscles like badges of honor and were more likely to be found on a basketball court or a football field than cooped up in a science lab. But Barry reminds himself that she’s here with him tonight, that she’s with him for as long as he can hold onto her, and he shakes that nagging feeling of insecurity away.

“Yeah, we’ve met,” he says, nodding at Scott; Scott nods back.

“So are you two up for any awards?” Barry asks.

Gary explains that he is, one for a photograph he took of the mayor that apparently had really shown both her determination and vulnerability. Scott is up for two, one in the Breaking News category, another in Short Feature Writing, one of the ones Iris is up for as well. Barry is about to say anything besides congratulations when Scott’s gaze leaves Barry’s to stare at something over his shoulder. His jaw drops and both Barry and Gary turn to see what’s got his attention. 

It’s Iris, walking towards them. There’s the touch of the smile that’s been on her full lips since he picked her up, and her painted fingers are holding on to the small clutch in front of her. But as she walks, the brown length of her legs play peekaboo in the lines of her dress, and her hips sway to a song Barry swears he can hear playing in his head.

He can’t help but picture her, later tonight, that dressed pooled on the floor, those shoes over his shoulders, his palm stinging from the slapping her ass will get for not kissing him earlier. Barry wonders if she can see what he’s thinking, if what he’s feeling is as evident in the front of his pants as he feels it is. Because she’s caught his eye, well, after she graced him with a slow full-body scan, and he’s come to learn what the blackening of her dark eyes mean. He’s come to recognize her lip biting as a sign, though he hasn’t yet figured out a sign of what, if it’s because her nipples are pebbling, because her dark skin is warming; if it’s because her clit is swelling, because her pussy is slick with her lust. His entire body feels tighter, harder, like he’s been coated in iron. 

“I don’t know how you bagged that, Allen,” Gary mumbles, a little more than a hint of shock coloring his tone.

“Believe me, Williams. I’m still trying to figure it out myself.” 

He hears Scott snort, but he can’t answer because then Iris is stopping in front of them. He reaches for her, the move deliberate, and he knows she figures he’s staking a claim when she rolls her eyes at him, but presses closer to him anyway. It’s _that_ , that way she acknowledges his being absurd but she still supports it, that makes him think that they could really do this. And because he’s somewhat of an asshole, as she turns to greet the other two men, he plants another slow kiss at the corner of her mouth, so that they _know,_ you know.

************  
  


“This is where they take women like me to murder them.”

They’re riding down a narrow, curving street north of Central City. It’s been about a half hour since they left the ceremony, and Iris’s award is sitting neatly in the back. The ceremony hadn’t been as drawn out as he figured it might be, and they’d been able to get out a lot sooner than had been expected.

Dinner had been a fairly boring hunk of chicken, roasted potatoes, and a side of Brussel sprouts they’d all picked over. The champagne—of which he’d stopped drinking after two glasses, knowing he was driving—and company had made it better, as Linda and Cisco took turns telling stories more animated than the last and Barry sat with his arm draped over Iris’s chair, his fingers tracing the words to a song, _i feel wonderful because I see, the love light in your eyes, and the wonder of it all, is that you just don't realize how much i love you,_ as he took in the people around him, the women beside him.

The awards portion featured a retired newspaper editor who’d apparently been a tycoon in his heyday and it’d rendered people quiet and attentive as he listed off nominees and winners. While _The Central City Citizen_ hadn’t won for Excellence in Newspaper, Iris had beat our Scott and the others for Short Feature Writing, and though he knows she'd deny it, he had seen the swell of tears at the corners of her eyes as she’d gone up to get her plaque.

Now, the dashboard clock tells them it’s close to 10, and the soothing sound of Erykah Badu is playing softly on the radio from Iris’s phone. Barry looks out at the street, and he figures he sees what she means. Trees line either side of the two lane street and one can barely see through them. There are no street lights and only the lights from his car pave the way.

“Does it make you nervous?” he asks her, in his most ominous voice.

There’s a pause. “Well it didn’t until just now.”

Barry laughs. “Kidding. We’re only about ten minutes out.”

“Out from where?” Iris wonders. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“Our family cabin,” he tells her. “We don’t use it very much, and I thought it’d be a nice place to hole up for the weekend.”

She hums, but she doesn’t say anything more. For a second, Barry wonders if he’s made a mistake bringing her out here. It’s true, what he told her. He knows that they are both busy. Even if she hadn’t decided to steer clear of him this past week, he’s sure their brief sighting at the station would’ve still been their only interaction. New relationships are hard, even without all of the baggage that he and Iris come with. They need a strong foundation, something to settle them as they try to navigate this new them. He’s not 100% certain what he’s expecting. Initially, he’d pictured a weekend full of them barely clothed and slightly tipsy, just enough to let them air out the rest of their issues, to explore what it is they want for their future. But he’s worried now that maybe this is too much too soon, that maybe she would appreciate them moving slower, that maybe she would appreciate more time to get used to the real idea of them.

“Did-did I overstep? Did I do this wrong?” Barry nearly stumbles through his question.

He can hear the surprise in Iris’s voice when she responds. “What do you mean?”

“This trip? Did I do it wrong? I only thought we, that we could get to know each other again.”

His hands tighten on the wheel at his own fumbling, this time stronger than normal. He hasn’t quite felt this way around her since he was 15 years old, and it feels a bit strange to be back in this space now when, arguably, he should be floating. He wants to chance a look at her, but he uses the fact that he has to search for his turn to keep his eyes on the road. He waits, the faintly paralyzing feeling of anxiety sitting in his gut. 

“No,” she says quietly. “You didn’t overstep. I just actually am.”

He prods. “You actually are…”

“Nervous.”

He nearly jerks the wheel as his head snaps her way. “That I’m gonna kill you?”

“What? Barry, no, you idiot.”

He sticks a pin in the conversation because he sees his turn. The cleaning crew have turned the lights on that illuminate the path from the road to the house. Iris, in her curiosity, is quiet too, watching as they ride down the paved drive. Then the cabin comes into view.

Even Barry recognizes that the cabin is a bit ostentatious. It’s been in his dad’s family for years, though his dad and great-uncle have had it renovated in the last few. His grandfather Allen was a lover of fine things and had had this cabin built as a getaway from, he doesn’t know, spending money on other things? As it sits now, it’s a two story structure with a firmly rustic, albeit _elegant_ rustic, design. The house has a huge wraparound porch which leads to a massive deck out back, complete with fireplace, hot tub, couches, and flat screen TV. They can see inside through the picture windows, and it’s a much more modern take on what it had been originally, and he sees that the lights have been left on for them. It’s been a couple years since he’s been out here, but he knows that the three bedroom, three bathroom cabin has all of the amenities, and is decorated in greens and reds and browns, with the hints of gold his mom insisted on.

“Your family is ridiculous,” Iris mutters, and Barry can’t say he disagrees.

“Grandpa Allen dabbled in business,” he tells her as he pulls his car to a stop in front of the house. “He also liked his toys.”

“This isn’t exactly what I’d call a toy.”

Barry nods his head in concedence.

They work together to move into the house, and by together, Barry means Iris steps out of the car and walks up and onto the porch while Barry grabs their bags from the trunk. He follows after her, watching as she trails her hands along the wooden porch railing, peering inside the house. Her fingers tap an uneven cadence on the rail, her bottom lip planted firmly in her mouth. Even with her half eaten off lipstick, she’s gorgeous. A few minutes into the ride, she’d taken out all of the ties and pins that had held her hair up, and now her braids are hanging in slight waves down her back. He likes her hair when it’s in its natural, curly state, and he likes it when it’s straight too. But Barry admits that there’s something about her hair like this that makes him think of goddesses or African queens or some other form of royalty. She holds her dress by the train, and he can’t get over how she looks in it: how the red brings out those reddish gold undertones in her skin and how the material seems almost like liquid in the way that it molds to her round hips, her soft thighs. Her dark eyes dart around the porch and through the window before landing on him, just as he places their bags down on the porch.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “Aren’t we going in?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he nods to the set of four porch chairs lining the porch. “But let’s talk a minute.” 

She hesitates, eyeing him a bit more intently, searching maybe. He’s not sure, but it’s a full thirty seconds before she nods and moves toward one of the chairs. He waits until she sits, and then he sits in the chair beside her. The night is warm, not as hot up here next to the lake, but the warmth lingers. When he pays attention, he can see the liberal sprinkle of stars dotting the blue silk of the sky, the large sliver of moon that’s barely visible when they’re in the city. It smells like nature out here too, like the hickory trees, and the natural lake that flows behind the cabin. That, mixed with her sweet honeysuckle scent, helps Barry find a calm. That’s the thing about Iris. She winds him up, makes him antsy and angry and altogether muddled. But she calms him too, soothes him in a way she has no clue she’s even able to do. It’s enough for him to lick his lips and say,

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She sits back in the chair, the seat so deep that it’s only because she’s scooted down a bit and her heels are far too high that her feet are still able to touch the ground. Her hair has fallen in her face, and she brushes it back over her shoulder.

“I’m not nervous about you killing me, weirdo.” She gives him a look. “But I am about all of this.”

Somehow, he can sense that she isn’t finished, so he sits up in his own chair, knees pointed toward her, to wait. He remembers that, as eloquent as Iris can be when she’s telling human interest stories and exposing corruption, the same thing doesn’t come so easily when she’s speaking. When they were younger, before yelling at one another became the norm, she would write out her feelings, little letters she would leave in his locker when he had pissed her off or upset her in some other way. So he waits while she gathers her thoughts, holding on to that calm she inspires in him.

“I know that the other night we sort of solidified us, laid it all out on the table. I guess it’s just that the reality is only now setting in.” Her expression is thoughtful “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just in my head. All of this is nice. Sweet. I’ve forgotten how sweet you can be.”

The slight tension he had still been harboring drains out of him, and he can’t help beaming at her. He stands, and then reaches down to grab her hand, pulling her up and against him. He circles an arm around her waist and she presses both of her palms to his chest.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispers.

Her lips tick up. “Thank you for inviting me.”

He squeezes her where his hand is planted at her hip. “Can I get a kiss now?”

“Hmm mmm.” Her tone borders on apathy but he knows it’s just her, a mechanism, a knee-jerk reaction from when she’d had to hold back the way she felt for him.

“You don’t have to do that,” he tells her, reminds her. “You don’t have to hide from me anymore.”

He still isn’t surprised when her response is to lean up and plant her mouth on his.

He feels like it’s been forever, since he kissed her last. Maybe she feels the same way, because she wastes no time opening up for him. Barry doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the taste of her in his mouth. She’s always so sweet, and he can taste the champagne still on her tongue. He groans in her mouth, and she takes it, sliding her hands up until her nails are scratching at the hair at the nape of his neck. He holds her tighter, slides his own hand down until he’s able to grab a palmful of her ass. It’s delightful, how her lips move with his, a sort of dance that switches and adjusts, with her leading and then him, with them meeting back up in sync. It’s the kind of kiss poetry is written about, and Barry wishes, for just a moment, that he could do that for her. That he could write odes to the taste of her mouth, sonnets that describe the feel of her flesh in his palm, that express the ache of his sex the longer he kisses her.

When he pulls away, she’s breathing heavier and her brown eyes seem even darker in the night. Her mouth is parted, lips kiss stung and swollen, and he thinks that maybe it’s a good thing that she hadn’t agreed to his kiss at the hotel. They are both quiet, basking in this kiss, this kiss that seems to solidify them in the way their last sexual encounter hadn’t quite been able to. Even the uncertainty that usually comes with Iris has seemed to dissipate, and as he gazes back at her, he finds that everything they’ve ever been has come to this very moment. He wants to consummate the moment so much, _right now_ , that he aches with it.

“Let’s go inside,” he tells her, voice gruff even to his own ears, “before we give the lake animals a show.”

The cabin smells like the jasmine and ylang ylang oils he’d requested. The large open floor plan looks the latest in comfort: huge, stuffed couches; plush throw pillows; a legion of available blankets. He’s only been here in the winter, when the open hearth fireplace gets a lot of use, but Barry thinks there is something just as comforting about holing up in places like this during the summer too, when life gets to pause for a moment. He hopes that’s what he gets this weekend, to pause and bask in the woman he’s loved since he’s known what the word meant.

He watches as Iris takes a look around, her hands touching things as she passes them. Much like when she’d come to his place, she takes stock of the bookshelves, two tall slim cases, homemade in a nice walnut wood. They’re filled to the brim with knickknacks and books: the mystery and true crime titles that he and his parents favor, the Harlequin romances his grandmother had harbored. There are other figurines lining the shelves, nice little mementos from all of their various travels. She moves into the kitchen, noting the “ marble countertops, the wide refrigerator, the two ovens. 

“This is a really great place,” she says, when he assumes she’s done all of the looking she needs to.

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees. He starts toward the back where the bedrooms are located. “C’mon.”

Iris follows after him. “Where are we going?”

“Bedroom. We can change clothes, and settle down for a movie, maybe? I’ve got snacks.”

He looks back at her just as she tilts her head. “What kind of snacks?”

“Popcorn,” he answers, “with garlic parm salt.”

Her eyes widened. “You remembered?”

He shrugs, but he feels his cheeks warm at the lightness in her voice. In high school, she’d loved that snack, settling down for numerous movie nights with Linda with a large bowl of microwave popcorn and the small container of flavored salt. He’d only known about it because of the few times he’d ventured through the West house to give Wally a ride somewhere and had had to wait for him in their living room. Somehow, before Wally and he had left the house, he’d usually been doused with the buttery, salty popcorn because of something he’d said, and it makes sense that he'd remember. He’s also got some homemade brownies too, from a bakery they’d gotten plenty of birthday cakes from when they were kids, as well as several containers of fruit—blackberries and strawberries and diced mango—to round out the salt and baked sugar.

He opens the door to lead her in, the massive room sporting a king-sized bed, a couch at the foot of it, and it’s own fireplace. Iris follows him in, clutching at her own fingers, that bottom lip back in her mouth. Her eyes are wide when she looks back at him, and he swears he sees the faint rush of panic flash through her eyes before she blinks it away.

Barry gives her a soft smile as he places their bags onto the floor.

“I’ll give you a minute to change, yeah? While I get the snacks and the movie ready?”

She lets out a grateful sigh. “Thanks, Barry. I won’t be long.”

Nodding, he leaves Iris in the master bedroom to freshen up and change. And to, more accurately, give her the moment of privacy he can see her itching for. He has to remember that she isn’t always spontaneous, that she is deliberate in her actions. She’s a thinker; she’s a planner and she’s careful, most particularly when it comes to her feelings. Barry has figured out that emotions cannot be controlled, that the way a person makes you feel cannot always be calculated, even if his science mind would have him wish for it to be so. But for someone who makes their living tapping into the heartstrings of her readers, Iris prefers to weigh the variables when it comes to her own heart strings. It’s something that Linda had mentioned after their trip to Savannah, planting in his own head the idea that more than anything else, Iris might have been scared to be pursued by him.

For him, it had merely come across as running, as hiding herself away from him. And he guesses he had known that the root of all of that had been fear. But now, he has to keep in mind that agreeing to be with him doesn’t mean she’s no longer cautious. Those habits don’t merely go away and their history won’t make that easy. But like he’d told her a week ago,

(after she’d left him lying in his bed, naked and smelling like her; after he’d laid out every single thought of her;

before she’d come to the feel of her own fingers and the mere sound of his voice; before she’d told him _“_ _I want the way you look at me like you’ve been waiting for me your entire life”_ )

he would do anything to, for as long as it takes, get her to understand that she never has to wonder about his feelings again. To get her to see that they could be like they used to be, but _more,_ real in a way that 11 year-old romances can’t be. Oh, they were so good then, and they can be again. They can be _good_ and grown-up and them without reservations. They can be talks of work over wine and Chinese takeout. They can be pictures taken in red gowns and black tuxedos, tipsy grins planted on their faces. They can be late nights in their underwear, too wired to sleep, dancing to her favorite 90s tunes until the hum of arousal gets to them both and he slips into her, slow and hard. With the picture crystal clear in his mind, Barry ventures with his bag to one of the other, smaller bedrooms to change. He slips into a pair of gray joggers and a white t-shirt, putting his suit and shirt on a hanger and laying it on the fully made bed. Done, he makes his way to the front room to set up and wait for Iris. 

It’s cooler up here in these trees, next to this lake, but it's still summer and not cold enough for the use of the fireplace. Instead, he grabs a large fleece blanket and tosses it onto the couch. Then, he goes into the kitchen to prepare the snacks. While the popcorn pops in the stainless steel microwave, he washes a couple handfuls of each fruit before cutting them up and mixing them together in a bowl. When the microwave dings, he pours the popcorn from the bag into another bowl and tosses it with the salt. He takes it all out to set up on the coffee table, along with a couple bottles of water and the container with the rest of the salt for when Iris undoubtedly decides to ruin the bowl.

He’s gotten everything in order and is logging into his netflix account when Iris comes into the room. Like has been the star of many a dream of Barry’s, she’s in a tiny pair of shorts that stretch far too thin across her hips and a matching camisole. Unlike the soft cotton he’d gotten used to in Savannah, these are made of some sort of silky material, lace piping along the neckline of the top, around the hem of the shorts. The whole thing is in an ivory color that makes her brown skin practically glow in the harsh light of the cabin. Her feet are bare, and he only laments for a moment that he won’t be able to fuck her with those heels on. The look of those red toes might be even more intimate, and the picture changes for him, those soft feet flattened _on_ his shoulders instead.

“Barry, you okay?” he hears Iris wonder. She’s moved into the living room in space of his musings, and she’s dropping down onto the couch. 

“Yeah, of course.” He scratches at his neck. “Just thinking.”

He hears her murmur, something that sounds a lot like “me too,” and he’s almost certain he doesn’t mistake her looking down at the crotch of his joggers before turning away and reaching for the bowl of popcorn. He shakes his head, not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to repress the need to have her. 

“What do you want to watch?” Barry asks her as he sits down beside her on the couch, remote in hand. She’s got the bowl in her lap already, nestled in the space her crossed legs make. She’s munching on the popcorn, one piece and then another thrown in her mouth in rapid succession. “I’m not going to get any of the popcorn am I?”

She shakes her head. “Probably not.”

“Damn. I did all this for you and I can’t even get one piece of popcorn.”

“Oh please.” She tosses a handful into her mouth. “You did all this to get laid.” She glances down at his lap. “That’s why you put those sweatpants on too.”

The first part catches his attention first, and he gifts her with a slow, seductive smile. “You know I didn’t need any of this to get you in my bed, Iris.”

She snorts. He tries for some popcorn and she pulls the bowl away from his reach. He shakes his head and latches onto her second statement.

“And what are you talking about? What have my sweatpants got to do with anything?” He leans over the grab the bowl of fruit since she apparently actually has no intention of sharing the popcorn with him.

“They’re obscene,” she says, like that tells him anything. “Don’t wear them for anyone but me.”

“What?”

“Not to work out, not to go downstairs in your building to grab the mail, not to go to the grocery store.” She seems to think about it. “Especially not to the grocery store.”

That makes Barry even more confused, but then she’s leaning over to pluck a strawberry from the bowl he’s holding. 

“Hey! If I can’t have any popcorn, you can’t eat my fruit.”

“Didn’t I tell you I can do what I want?”

“Hmm,” he hums. He reaches over to her again, but this time he stops at her ankle, tracing along the skin there. “And later you’ll learn to do as you’re told.”

He decides right then that he _likes_ that slow-blinking, wide-eyed look she gives him when he says something that unexpectedly arouses her. She does it now, and Barry feels the skin on her ankle pebble as he continues touching her there.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she insists.

Barry licks his lips. “You will.” Then he holds up the remote and nods at the large screen television. “What do you want to watch?”

She glances at the television and back to him. “Nothing, really. Let’s just hang out. Talk.”

“Okay.” He places the remote on the arm of the couch. “What do you want to talk about?”

She shrugs. “Did you enjoy your time at the ceremony tonight?”

“Yeah, I did. I liked seeing you in your domain tonight.”

“Yeah?” she smiles. “It felt good to be there. We all get so wrapped up in the competition that we forget how nice it feels to be around people who understand why we do this.”

“I can only imagine.”

“And tell me, what’d you do today?”

He grins at the banality of the question. “Thought about you.” He reaches for her ankle again.

“I’m serious,” she says, kicking at his hand.

“Me too,” he tells her, but then he adds, “I talked to my mom too. Told her the truth.”

“And what’d she say?”

“That she’s sorry we had to do all of that to get here.”

“Oh,” she’s as surprised as he was. “That was kind of her.”

Barry sighs. “She only said it because it’s you. Any other woman and she would’ve said if we have to go through all that, it wasn’t worth it to be together.”

She gives him a thoughtful look. “And would you have done everything you’ve done? For another woman?”

“C’mon, Iris, you know the answer to that.”

She takes a moment to respond. In the meantime, she steals another piece of fruit from his bowl, and then places her half empty bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. She picks up the bottle of water and drains half of it, twisting the top back on and putting it on the table too. Then she takes him in.

“What if I want to hear you say it?”

He takes his time too, putting his own bowl on the table. He leans back on the couch, spreading his legs a little. The move catches Iris’s attention, her eyes darting to where he’s lying heavy against his thigh. Her breath catches and her gaze darts back to his, but her chest still heaves.

Barry figures it’s time, figures that they’ve been playing at this since the moment he picked her up. He thinks it’s been building, through those slick smiles she’s been throwing him, through those light touches to his hand, to his throat as she claimed to fix his collar. He’s only helped to push her, push himself into this state. His hands on her body, his mouth on her skin, how reactive he’s seemed to make her. It culminates here, with him stiff in his pants and her nipples jutting through the thin fabric of her top.

“I’ll say it,” Barry says, and he dips his voice. “If you tell me why you initially agreed to play my girlfriend.”

Like he’d known she would, she gets that deer in headlights look. “Why don’t you tell me first why you asked me.”

They both know she knows the reason. He even knows hers; but he’s counting on her refusal to answer for the sole purpose of getting her naked in his lap.

He leans over slightly, making as if to reach for her. Her hand is on the couch, just an inch or so from the tips of his fingers.

“Answer the question, Iris.”

“You answer first,” she retorts.

Closing that scant bit of distance between them, Barry grips her hand and yanks her over until she’s splayed across his lap, her plump ass facing the ceiling. She wiggles, her cheek pressing into the sofa, and then she turns to him, her eyes flashing. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You won’t answer my question. You wouldn’t kiss me when I asked.” His tone is matter of fact. “I told you it’s a lesson you’d learn.”

“I thought you were just, I don’t know, trying to get a rise out of me.”

True, Barry thinks, but only so he’d have this excuse.

“Surely you had to know I was serious.”

She huffs, and Barry sees that as his cue to put both of his hands on her, one against her upper back, the other spread across her ass. The silk of her night shorts are unbelievably soft, and he glides his hands over her hip to the back of her thigh to see if she’s as soft as these clothes. She is, even moreso, only upstaged by her satiny sex.

“You know,” Barry says, and his tone is almost conversational. He slides his hand back up, over the curve of her behind, the material sliding up a little to expose a rounded cheek. The thought that she might not be wearing any panties almost ends this before it’s even begun. “I’ve thought about it, a lot. Spanking you.” 

She twists her neck so that she can see his face. “You’ve been thinking about hitting me?”

“Only enough that it gets you ready for me.” He continues trailing his fingers along her backside, up and down, just using the tips of fingers because it makes her shiver against him. “Do you disagree? With the fact that you deserve this punishment?”

He lifts an eyebrow, and Barry pauses in his ministrations, hoping she knows that he won’t go any further if she’s really not into this. She does, sensing it, and she shakes her head. 

“Say the words, Iris.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Good.”

Barry raises his hand and brings it back down against her ass. It bounces on his lap, and Iris yells out “Fuck,” eyes closing at the feeling. 

“Not yet, baby.” He rubs at her to soothe the sting. “I don’t think you get it yet.”

Iris grits her teeth. “Get what?”

“That I want all of you. Your kisses,” he gives her a firm tap, not nearly as hard as the first one, but enough that she tenses her body again before she relaxes. “I want your attention, your thoughts,” he raises his hand again, “your trust.”

He brings it back down, his open palm making a loud _smack_ that seems to suck the breath out of her, that seems to harden him to steel.

“Goddamnit, Barry,” she screams, but Barry hears how _breathy_ she sounds, voice hoarse; he notices how much warmer her skin is beginning to feel under his hand.

“Do you like this, Iris?”

“No,” she’s quick to answer, and it makes Barry smile.

“No?” She makes a sound that’s half grunt, half groan. “Are you lying to me, Iris?”

He has to give it to her, how unaffected she seems to be when she finally answers. “Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you think you’ll be punished a little more if I find out you’re lying.”

“Kiss my ass, Barry Allen.”

“In due time, baby.” Another quick tap to her bottom, just enough to watch it jiggle. “I need to find out if you’re lying to me.”

In slow, deliberate movements, Barry grabs at the elastic waist of her shorts and starts to tug them over her hips. When he gets stuck, he orders, “lift your hips,” and then pulls them the rest of the way down. He tosses the shorts somewhere over his shoulder, and looks down at her bare bottom staring back up at him. Her brown skin is marred red from his touch, and he thinks that maybe he sees the faintest hint of a print of his hand. He likes that.

He drags his fingers across the small of her back, and then he begins down, lightly touching at the cleft between her cheeks as he moves to where he’s been thinking about all day. She wiggles on him, her hips undulating in a way that tells Barry it’s instinctive, that tells him she’s searching _—_ for him, for his hand, for anything to fill her. He stops touching when he gets to the juncture of her thighs and she whimpers, a sound he’s sure she’d tried to hold in. He likes that too.

“Barry,” Iris breathes, his name full of barely disguised longing. 

“Hmm.” His chuckle is dark, dirty. Just a corner of his mouth lifts, even if she can’t see him, and he’s fully captivated by the way he’s got her right now. Sure the sight of her like this, ass up, face down, calls to the most primal part of him. But the fact that she’s letting him touch her like this, the fact that she’s _liking_ his touch like this, lets him know that she trusts him, even if she won’t admit it.

He’s going to get her to admit it.

With that renewed energy, he turns his attention back to his woman.

“Spread your legs for me, Iris.”

She holds out for a full 15 seconds. Then, incrementally, she opens her knees, thick thighs spreading for him. The ambrosial scent of her arousal hits him, and it’s all that Barry can do not to flip her back over and plant his face in her pussy.

Instead, he tells her “wider,” until she’s fully open to him. And he can see that she is, fully open. Her lips are swollen, already slick, her arousal coating her outer lips. His cock twitches in his pants.

“Oh, look at you baby,” he practically sings. “You _were_ lying to me.”

“I—” she starts, but doesn’t attempt to finish the sentence.

“Look at me, Iris.”

She manages to twist the top half of her body enough that she can catch his eyes.

“I don’t like when you lie to me about your feelings.”

“I—”

He gives her one more solid slap, his fingers catching her wetness, and this time Iris moans out, a low, almost guttural sound. “ _Fuck_ , Barry.”

“Tell me you like this.”

Her swallow is audible. “I like it.”

“Good girl.” 

He gives a pleased hum, stroking softly against where he’s just spanked her. The automatic timer on the television has turned it off from the Netflix home screen, and the only light comes from a small lamp in the corner of the room. It’s quiet, just the sound of their breathing to cut into the silence. He looks down at her, at her silky camisole bunched up high on her torso, showcasing the seductive curve of her waist, at her round behind hiding her sopping pussy.

“Stand up for me, baby,” he tells her. His voice is softer in this new quiet, in this air that has seemed to shift; but the command is still there, a deeper layer that he’s never really used before. Maybe Iris really brings it out of him. He feels so out of his depth with her sometimes, and he thinks that this is where he can find power, where he can get her to succumb to him, to _open_ for him, in all the ways she can’t when reality sets in and it’s no longer him and her and tangled limbs. 

So he tells her again, “Stand up for me, and take your top off,” and he’s infinitely pleased when she does, legs wobbling a little, fingers shaking a bit as she pulls the top up and over her head, tossing it where he’s sure he’d thrown her shorts.

“Come stand in front of me.”

She moves to do so, standing between his open legs. She’s naked in front of him, and Iris is absolutely the sexiest woman he’s ever seen: her toned shoulders and arms, the firm handful of breasts with dark, pert nipples; the slim waist and rounded hips that leads to her soft thighs, those shapely calves. He throbs at the sight of her, and he fingers his jaw to keep from reaching out and touching her.

“Why am I always fully naked before you?” Her voice is sharp, but there’s a shred of doubt there. He can’t have her thinking she’s anything but what he wants right now, and he jumps back in.

His lips curve up. “You ready for me, Iris?”

She gives him an eye roll, folds her arm across her chest. “I’m ready for you to be naked.”

Barry leans back on the sofa, elbows propped up on the back. His smirk doesn’t leave, not as he commits the site of her to memory, not as she begins to fidget under the intensity of his gaze.

“What did we just learn about you lying about your feelings?”

“Fuck you, Barry.”

He gives her a little more of a grin. It wouldn’t be Barry and Iris if they didn’t get a little hostile, even during foreplay. “You’re always so contrary when it comes to me.”

She scowls, drops her arms. Her tits bounce, and Barry has absolutely no idea how he’s still holding out. He’s so unbelievably hard in his pants, and it’s a wonder there isn’t a wet spot there; he must be leaking. If she touched him now—hell, if _he_ touched him now—he wouldn’t last longer than a second.

“You know we could get on with this if you tell me what you want.” He licks his lips. “I’ve told you all you have to do is ask, Iris, and I’ll give you, I’ll do, anything you want.”

She meets his gaze, holds it, licks her own lips. “I’d like for you to be naked.”

He nods. “Alright.” He makes quick work of pulling his shirt off, and then his sweatpants, hoping that they land where her clothes have gone. He does this without standing, and hopefully without looking like a fool, and then he grabs at Iris, gripping her hip and pulling her until he can clearly see the glistening curls trimmed to cover her sex.

“Spread,” he says, and she does, stepping until her legs are roughly shoulder length apart. He wastes no time, keeping her still with the hand on her hip and then fingering at her slit with the other. She whimpers, knees bending in intervals as she tries to hold herself steady. Like this, he can’t touch her at the angle he wants to, but he can slide his fingers through the wetness, all the way through the length of her pussy until he can finger at that swollen bud peeking out from its hood.

He’s learned that she likes equal attention, to her clit and to the rest of her. So he plays in her, pushing his fingers into the knuckle, scissoring them inside her body, before giving her clit some attention too. She’s so vocal too, and Barry loves that here, like this, he never has to wonder her feelings, he never has to figure out if she’s enjoying what he’s doing to her. He watches her face as he fingers her, watches the pleasure play out in her low-lidded eyes and the soft moaned _“ohhhh”_ coming from those bee stung lips. He could probably get her to come like this. But he wants to feel her tighten around his dick, not his fingers, so he pulls out of her.

The whimper she gives him is practically his undoing, and he grabs at his sex, rubbing her wet over him as he gets ready to slide into her tightness. She watches, eyes transfixed, as his wet fingers caress his thickness. He can practically see her salivating, and it boosts his confidence in a way that he didn’t realize he wanted, needed.

“Do we need a condom?” he wonders. He knows that they’ve had sex without one on the last two occassions, even mentioned the status of their sexual health and her contraceptive use. Still, this is a conversation they should have plainly had.

“Not if you don’t want.”

He continues to rub her juices over the mushroom head of his dick, down the long length of his shaft. He gives his balls a soft tug, and then nods down at himself.

“Straddle me.”

She moves to do so, her stomach clenching as she plants her knees on either side of his hips. She hovers over him, the sweet smell of her skin, the delectable scent of her pussy giving him a heady rush of blood to where he’s already pulsing in his hand. He gives her one more good stroke with his other hand, the tips of three of his fingers gathering her wetness. He licks at those fingers, wanting her taste in his mouth again, and it’s worth it to see her eyes flash.

“Sit on my dick, Iris.”

He keeps touching her, but he lets her set the pace, watching as she touches at her own slick, spreading her lips to take him in. She starts to slide down. It’s slow going, inch by fucking inch, and Barry feels his fingers tighten on where he is holding on to her hip. When he looks up at her, her head is thrown back, full lips parted, and her braids are tickling at his knees. She’s so wet, _hot,_ and it’s amazing how much so, when he’d only used his hands on her ass and a few strokes inside her to get her like this. 

When she’s about three quarters of the way down, she pauses.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, trying to keep the sound of him gritting his teeth out of his voice.

She breathes deeply. “You’re so big.”

Even he knows his grin is wolfish. “You can handle me, though, can’t you baby?”

“I—” She wiggles her hips, slides down a _scant_ few centimeters, and Barry wonders, hopes, that he’ll leave a mark on her hip for how hard he’s squeezing her to keep his control.

He tips his free hand up the middle of her torso, over her belly and between her breasts. He lightly curves his fingers around the base of her throat, and he brings her down to meet his face. He gives her a kiss that barely touches her lips and he pulls back enough to say,

“You’ve taken me before.”

“Not,” she starts, swallows, “not like this.”

He hums and presses his fingers just a little bit into her neck. “But you can do whatever you want to, can’t you, Iris?”

Her eyes flash as he throws her words back at her, and he nips at her bottom lip.

“You want to take me don’t you?” He thrusts his hips, up into her, and she shudders in his arms. “Don’t you?”

 _“Yes.”_ The word is a near hiss.

“Then do what you want to do.” 

He kisses her, then, at the same time that he helps bring her down on him and he’s there, fully seated in her.

“Barryyy,” she moans against his mouth, breaking their kiss. But he brings her back to him, taking her mouth until she’s comfortable enough to start moving. This kiss is sloppy, all lips and tongue and very little finesse. It’s eyes closed and deep throated moans, the kind of kiss that speaks to fiery passion and fervent impatience, like separating for even a moment might lead both of them to die of loss.

But it works, because it builds her need, flushes her walls with another coat of slick, and then she starts to rock on him. She moves in his lap, dancing, her hips moving to the same beat that’d been in his head earlier. He feels so overwhelmed by her right now: her mouth still moving sloppily against his, the soft skin of her hip on his palm, the hold he has on her neck. And _her,_ her walls clutching him, her wet on his thighs, her heat making him lose sight of everything but pleasing her.

He pulls away from her kiss. “Do you know how good you feel wrapped around me like this?”

“As good as you feel,” she rocks against him, “inside of me.”

“Yes. So good.”

He swivels his hips, grinding up into her when she pushes back down on him. She’s not so much riding him, not so much sliding up and down on him as she is fucking herself on him, raising her hips only enough that she can clench around him the way she wants, that she can slide back down and be just as full of him as she needs to be. She’s angled so that her nipples brush against his chest, and the way she brushes deliberately against his pelvis lets him know that she’s catching her clit against his own pubic hair. She touches him wherever she decides to put her hands: on his shoulders, her nails digging into the skin; at the back of his nape, her fingers playing with the strands of his hair; at his neck, tapping at the moles that cover his throat.

He doesn’t hate this feeling, of her using him as her own mastabutory tool. In fact, he could let her use him well into the night, well into the rest of their lives. It’s so good, the smell of her and the taste of her and the feel of her. He’s no doubt that this is why civilizations fall, why they’re built up. Why men once fought and bartered and dualed for the chance to be inside the women they’d wanted. He feels like he can do anything, _would_ do anything, for just the chance to keep sliding in her heat, for just the chance to keep making her cum.

“Do you trust me, Iris?”

Her movements slow, as she registers what he’s just asked her, but she doesn’t stop. “What?”

“Not just here,” he wonders, moving away from her neck to clutch at both of her hips. That leaves more of her to his view, and he sees it, that faint flush of her skin, that light coat of sweat on her that makes her glow. He holds her hips. “Not just when I’m fucking you, but in life. Do you trust me to do right by you?”

She tries to grind down on him, but his hold on her tightens, stilling her hips. “Talk to me, baby.”

“Fuck, Barry, are you doing this again?” Her chest heaves, and his does too, their heavy breathing mingling. She looks down at him, eyes roaming over his face. She’s so pretty like this, he hurts at the look of it. “Are we doing this? Right now?”

“I don’t want to push you,” he says, as he goes to press a thumb to her clit. He pushes into her, a short stroke, but he feels himself throb against her walls.

“It feels like you’re pushing me,” she grits out, trying again to fuck back down on him.

“I promise I’m not.” He rubs a circle on her and watches as she lets out a shaky breath. “But here, when we’re like this, is the only time you’re fully open for me.”

“Because you think your dick can get me to do what you want.”

He grins up at her, even at the risk of her ire. “I appreciate that you think so.” He ignores the growl she makes. “But I just want to know, if you trust me. If you trust that I love you, that I only want to love you for the rest of our lives.” He leans up and presses a kiss to her chest, over heart. “We can’t work if you don’t.”

Iris licks at her lips, the move slow, weighty, like she’s thinking of her answer. He feels as if his heart is suspended in his throat, and not for the first—or second or third—time tonight does he wonder if he’s overstepping.

She tries again, swiveling her hips, the move tentative, and he gives her an inch.

“I’m going to kill you, Barry,” she says, and she touches at his neck again, drawing on his moles she always seems so fascinated by.

“Yeah?” His hands slide up the spine of her back, down again as she arches into him. “You’ve been telling me that since I was 15.”

“I’ve been meaning it since then.” She raises her hips until he can look down and see half of his cock coated in her cream, and then she slides back down. “I m-mean it now,” she stutters out.

“How are you gonna take me out, huh?” His voice is tense.

“I’ll—”

He doesn’t let her finish. “You gonna pin me down? Fuck me until I’m dead?” He closes his eyes at the feel of her squeezing around him. “Because I could die like this, Iris. I could happily die in this pretty, wet pussy.”

“ _Barry,_ ” she moans, because she’s started riding him, riding him this time in earnest. And he can’t stop her, not anymore, even if he _would_ die just to hear her say she trusts him.

“You’re insane, do you know that?”

He reaches up to grip her chin. His other hands keeps gliding up and down the soft skin of her back, and he holds her face still enough to catch hold of those eyes, so overcome by her pupils now that her irises are black.

“I’m insane about you, Iris. Tell me that you trust that. That you could feel the same about me.”

He’s not sure how long he waits for her to answer. He’s not sure how long she dances on him as he does. She doesn’t disengage, though, doesn’t avert her eyes from the way he’s trying to peer into the very depths of her soul. Her lids get lower, lower until she’s looking at him through slits in her face. Her body rocks faster, even wetter now, so much that she’s dripping down her own thighs, dropping onto his. But she’s right there with him, as his sac tightens and his dick swells, the heavy feeling hinting that he’s so close to spilling inside of her.

“I do.”

It’s a whisper against his lips and at first, Barry thinks he’s only hoping that he’s heard her. But she clears her throat, that sliver of _pant_ still coating her words. But he hears her clearly this time when she says,

“You are insane. And I trust you, trust that…” He thrusts against something good. “ _Fuck_ , Barry. Yes,” she bounces now, and her words are choppier, uneven as she tries to chase the feeling of her orgasm. “Yes, I, _yes, Barry, fuuuuck,_ I tru-trust you, I love-lov-y, _shit,_ I’m coming, Barry.”

“I love you, too, Iris,” he murmurs into her mouth, and then she is, coming, her entire body tensing, nails biting into his shoulders, knees clutching his hips, mouth open with no sound coming out. Only her pussy still talks to him, spasming around him, milking him, pulling his own orgasm with a skill that might make true of his wish to die inside of her.

They stay there for a long, drawn-out moment, his dick still pulsing, her walls still fluttering as they come back to themselves. He holds on to her, never wanting to let her go, never wanting to lose the feel of her flushed and satisfied in his arms.

Seconds, minutes, an entire day later, she picks her head up from where she’d planted it in the crook of his neck. He touches at her face, hand rubbing down until he cups her cheek, his thumb pressing into her bottom lip. She flicks out her tongue, the tip catching a taste of his thumb.

“I thought you said we were gonna play nice, Allen,” she mumbles, breathing still harsh. She hits at his chest, but her strength is gone and it’s so light he barely feels it. He kisses at her forehead, at her cheek, at the top of her nose. He kisses her mouth, a long, slow kiss that has her grabbing again at his hair, pulling enough to elicit a groan from deep in his throat. 

When he pulls away, he smirks at her, licking his lips to keep her taste. “Nah, West. I think we have a little bit more fun when our games are wicked.”

Rolling her eyes, she dives back in for another kiss.

_What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all.... we made it! Several months and over 100K words and this beast is done. I really really hope this ended in a way that you all love.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading with me. This story has been so much fun and such a pain in my ass, and I am so incredibly sad to see it end. I love this Barry and Iris, so there might be a retrn to this universe in the future.
> 
> Let's round this out with some comments and some love...and maybe even some new one-shot ideas. :)
> 
> I hope that you all are still being safe and that you've taken some time to breathe (and do a little research on the Indigenous tribes native to your area) over this holiday break.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! 
> 
> I'm trying my hand at a multi-chapter. Please let me know what you think in the comments.
> 
> I'm super excited to see where this goes and chapter two is already in the works.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Elle <3
> 
> (P.S: Sorry for any typos!)


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